


Hesitation

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Post War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-30
Updated: 2007-02-17
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: If one hesitates in his path, let him not proceed. Let him respect his doubts, for doubts, too, may have some divinity in them.- Henry David ThoreauFor years, I waited, wondered and wished for the day when he'd finally set things in motion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

"Please, Hermione. _Please_ come over. I really need you tonight. "   
  
For a moment, I'm truly speechless. And that is something that has only happened to me a couple of other times in my life.   
  
So long have I imagined hearing these exact words from this particular person that I know them by rote; they feel as memorable as if they’d truly happened. I read somewhere that some researchers believe that _deja vu_ is just the latent manifestation of dreams not immediately remembered. The problem with that theory, though, is that I remember my dreams, especially the ones involving him. _Every single one of them._  
  
Sadly, the circumstances surrounding this request are strikingly dissimilar to said dreams. Ron has firecalled in a panic because Bill and Fleur have dropped off their two-year-old son, Etienne, at his flat. Apparently, Fleur has gone into labour three weeks early with their second child, and Molly and Arthur are out of town.   
  
"Hermione?"   
  
I glance once again to Ron's head in the fireplace, snapping out of my reverie.   
  
"Ron, I'm not that experienced with children, either. I'm an only child, if you recall."   
  
"You're a girl, though. Aren't you supposed to know about these things? Didn't you ever babysit?"   
  
"Ronald, I left for school when I was _eleven._ I hardly had a chance to babysit before that. And summers, well I was either with you lot, or--"   
  
Or revising, yeah I get it, Hermione,” he says dejectedly. “Still, there's no one else."   
  
"Oh, cheers, Ron. That makes me feel splendid."   
  
He sighs exaggeratedly. "Look, I’m sorry. Can you help?"   
  
And of course, I say yes. I always say yes. Who knew what sort of a precedent I’d be setting way back in first year, when I started helping them with their studies? Ever since then, they assume I'll bail them out in a pinch. And I always do; I always say yes.   
  
Hermione to the rescue.   
  
Truth be told, I still love it. Being needed. Even now, twelve years and many rescues later, I’m happy that they still need me. Even if--at least in Ron’s case--it’s not in the way that I want him to need me.   
  
Within twenty minutes, I’m at his flat. As a result of one ill-timed arrival on Ron’s behalf at Harry’s place, we don’t usually Apparate directly into each other’s places. But in my haste I pop right into his kitchen, having guessed correctly that he’d try snacks as his first approach.   
  
Sure enough, Etienne is sitting on a large pillow Ron has apparently placed in one of the chairs, happily eating a biscuit.   
  
“Hermione, thank Merlin you’re here.” He looks so happy to see me that I forget why I’ve been summoned. He’s got a green smudge on his cheek, presumably from a marker or paint. Were they painting? He looks genuinely overwhelmed.  
  
“Hello,” I say. “How’s it going?” He shrugs, and smiles conspiratorially at me.   
  
“Bonsoir, Etienne,” I say to the child. “Do you remember me?” He’s met me at countless Weasley functions, but I’m not sure I’ve made much of an impression on him.  
  
“Oui,” he replies, with a mouth full of bickie. “Harmonie.” _Close enough._ Ron smiles broadly at me. I fear this new nickname sticking if I’m not careful.  
  
“Well, let’s have Uncle Ron get you washed up and then maybe we can play a game.” Ron, bless him, has already fetched a wet flannel for Etienne’s face and hands. In his defence, he really _isn’t_ clueless about children. In fact, he’s a natural. Certainly more so than I am. I think he just may have panicked because Etienne is sort of a … _special case,_ if you will.   
  
Where Molly and Fleur would call him _spirited,_ most who’ve encountered him would call him spoiled. He’s been both blessed and cursed by being the first Weasley grandchild. Molly is a completely different Gram than she is Mum. With her own children, she ruled the roost with the perfect mix of firm discipline and warm affection. With Etienne, she’s a bit more … _indulgent._ To say the least.   
  
As Ron is cleaning him up, I whisper, “Ron, I truly _am_ clueless when it comes to entertaining a toddler. I brought some of my old picture books in my knapsack. I thought maybe a bedtime story might be in order at some point? Beyond that, I really don’t know what to suggest.”  
  
He looks up at me over Etienne’s head and says, “Well, I guess we’ll figure it out together, then, yeah?” As always, I inwardly curse my impulse to swoon like an idiot at his arbitrarily chosen words.  
  
After having his face wiped, Etienne immediately takes off into the parlour, Ron trailing him. I follow as well, and we begin a series of battles with the strong-willed toddler that rivals our experiences with Voldemort. We suggest some of the toys that Bill packed, but he rejects them all.   
  
“Non! Cela ennuyeux! _Boring!”_ he says.   
  
Finally, a bargain is struck with the two-year-old. Ron tells Etienne that if he agrees to stay put on the settee _safely_ across the room, Ron will build a house of cards with the Exploding Snap deck. This is an immediate hit. Several times, Ron builds up a second or third level of cards, only to have them fall to the floor with a bang. The child squeals with laughter.   
  
Poor Ron is covered in scorch marks, but looks thrilled that his strategy is working. I watch wistfully as he engages with Etienne. After a minute, it’s tough to tell who’s having more fun.   
  
And when he glances up in my direction, casts me that mischievous grin, Merlin help me-I fall in love with him for about the thousandth time. My thoughts drift, as they always do, cataloguing the numerous memories. Recollections of times we’ve strayed close to crossing the line between best friends and …something else.  
  
I remember the months after Voldemort’s defeat, when Ron and Harry and I hermited ourselves away from the world. Everyone was keen to hear our tales, and yet no one understood exactly what we felt, no matter how many times we tried to explain it.   
  
So we took to seclusion instead, holing ourselves up in Number Twelve, passing countless nights with quiet dinners and reading and chess. It was a time of healing, a time for the _three_ of us. No opportunity existed for Ron and I to explore any possibilities between us.   
  
Naturally, there were plenty of meaningful glances, comforting gestures, and sexually charged touches. But all those little moments never added up to anything more than an insinuation, a suggestion of something that might come down the road much later.   
  
And then when ‘later’ arrived, when the future became our present, we just all focused so tenaciously on getting on with our lives that there was little time to think about anything else.   
  
We all had countless offers of employment. Despite everyone’s assumption that I’d take up a ‘proper’ post at the Ministry or at Gringotts, I leapt at the chance to work in the Research Department at St. Mungo’s. The last two years have seen a surge forward in complementary medicine, and it seemed the prefect fit for me, where I could combine the assets of my two backgrounds for the greater good.  
  
Ron began work at the Ministry right away, stunning everyone with his choice to become a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. He was-- _is_ \--truly a natural at it. He says he finds it satisfying, cleaning up other people’s messes. Who would have ever predicted _that_? Harry and I laughed about it for weeks.  
  
And Harry … well, Harry has once again forged a new path for himself. Surprised almost everyone with his choices.  
  
“Etienne, no!” I snap out of my thoughts at the sound of Ron’s voice. The child has decided he’s done with Snap, apparently, and is pulling down books from the bookcase.   
  
Ron begins trying to replace them on the shelf, not realizing that he’s only starting a new game. Etienne immediately begins waiting a tic after each book Ron replaces, before pulling it down again and laughing. It’s very naughty, but I can’t help but laugh as I see the look of realization come across Ron’s face at the futility of his efforts.   
  
He spares me a look of playful reprimand for encouraging the bad behaviour, before tackling Etienne into a little wrestling match. Indeed, it may be what the child was after all along, since he squeals with delight at the new diversion.   
  
I’m still tingly from the glance, musing on the way Ron and I can communicate volumes without the benefit of words.   
  
There have been so many times, when Ron and I have been out somewhere, among other people--at a party, at a meeting--when we’ve had an entire conversation in wordless glances from clear across the room. It’s something I can only do with Ron and Harry. Harry’s glances don’t result in the same nervous little shiver down my spine, though.  
  
So many times I’ve wondered if he’s felt that accompanying prickle of excitement as well. If those moments that stand out in my memory are as quickly recalled by him.   
  
The times when his date didn’t quite understand his joke or his reference, and sheer instinct caused him to meet my eyes first; to seek out my reaction as a more accurate measure of his comments.  
  
All the nights I chose to say goodnight to my own date at a restaurant or club, only to have Ron see me back to my flat instead. We both know I don’t need an escort, but he does it anyway. Always Ron, never Harry.   
  
All the nights we’ve crashed at each other’s flats, too tired or drunk to Apparate home. I’ve had more than one restless night alone in my bedroom knowing that Ron Weasley was asleep just a few meters away in my parlour.   
  
There have been so many times when we’ve come dangerously close to crossing that line--a hug that lasted a bit too long, a chaste peck on the lips rather than a cheek, a chair pulled out for me, a hand on the small of my back as we walk through a door, his consistent choice to take the seat next to mine at family dinners.  
  
I’ve always interpreted these small signs as clues that things were moving forward, albeit excruciatingly slowly.  
  
But the nagging voice in my head always reminds me that it could be my active imagination. It’s perfectly reasonable--logical--that my optimistic mind would deduce what I _want_ to see, even if it wasn’t there. I can’t rule out that explanation.  
  
 _After all, if he were so inclined, surely he would have made it known by now?_  
  
“Hermione?” I’m so lost in my thoughts that Ron’s voice is jarring, despite its gentleness. “Are you alright?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You were somewhere else for a minute,” he says again. “You okay?”  
  
“Yes, I’m sorry. Just a bit tired, I suppose. Long week at the hospital. I’m not really helping much, am I?”  
  
He shrugs, Etienne still giggling beneath him. “S’okay. I still feel better having you here in case I need you.” _In case I need you._  
  
And there it is, in a nutshell. The reason why I wait, why I’ll keep waiting. In case he decides he needs me.   
  
“Etienne, would you like to hear a story?” I ask, attempting to return my focus back to the situation at hand. He nods, and surprisingly, climbs into my lap before I’ve had even a chance to retrieve the books from my rucksack. I give a nod to the bag when Ron meets my glance, and he pulls out my worn copy of _Just So Stories._ I catch him smiling in recognition of the title, and he turns to hand it to me.  
  
“One of Uncle Ron’s favourites,” he says to Etienne. In truth, it’s a bit too old for Etienne and only found its way into my bag by virtue of having been next to some of the others I grabbed. Still, Etienne seems interested now that Ron has hailed it as a favourite. Rolling my eyes at Ron, who sidles up beside me and Etienne on the settee, I thumb forward in the book to one of the simpler stories and begin to read.   
  
Within a few pages, my legs are falling asleep with the weight of Etienne’s increasingly sedate form. He looks like he might drift off soon, all glassy-eyed and sleepy.   
  
Pausing for a moment, I whisper to Ron, “Uncle Ron, do you think you could hold Etienne while we finish the story?” and begin to pass him over. This may have been a mistake, because the child stirs and whines a bit.   
  
“Je veux la maman. Where is Mummy?” he says, rubbing his eyes.   
  
Ron strokes the baby’s head and cradles him in his arms. “Shh, it’s alright Etienne. Mummy and Daddy will be back soon.” Too tired to protest further, Etienne points to the book I’m still holding, as if for me to continue.   
  
It takes only one more page for him to turn instinctively toward Ron’s chest and give in to sleep completely. Ron nudges me to call my attention to our small victory. He stands, and nods toward his bedroom, where I scurry ahead to quickly ready the bed for Etienne.   
  
Ron gently sets him down, while I create a barricade of pillows around his little body and pull a flannel throw up over him.   
  
Following Ron back out into the hallway, a wave of exhaustion that sweeps over me now that Etienne is finally in bed. It’s amazing how the flat seems to have enlarged, to hold such significant emptiness in the absence of such a small, noisy person.   
  
Just as I am reflecting on all this, we reach the parlour and Ron nearly knocks me off my feet by turning quickly and scooping me up into his arms in a bone-crushing hug.   
  
Whether I’m just tired or completely desperate for whatever I can get from him, I allow myself to collapse into his arms, melding to him a bit.   
  
“Thank you, thank you,” he murmurs into my neck exaggeratedly.   
  
“Oh, come on. I didn’t even help that much.” I admit. _Without letting go._  
  
“Still, you came, didn’t you?” he laughs, and now he does pull back to look at me, although he doesn’t release me completely. “How many times do you plan on coming to my rescue?” _Oh, dear._ I can’t think straight, he’s so close.   
  
“As many as you need, Ron.” I try to maintain the teasing tone of the exchange, but I realize that my words come out a little breathy.   
  
And then, all at once, I'm suddenly _very_ aware that his large hands have slid down to rest on my hips. And he hasn’t moved away.  
  
I venture a look up into his eyes and am gobsmacked at what I find there. The way he’s looking at me ... his stare ... it actually makes me shiver with its honesty.   
  
He steals the briefest glance down to my mouth; if I had blinked I may have missed it. But I didn't miss it. And having seen it, I feel a bit emboldened. Like maybe it might be worth a little bit of a risk to finally find out.  
  
In a way that I hope seems casual, I lean forward just enough so that I need to raise my chin up to meet his eyes. I see him swallow hard, and feel him tighten his grip on my hips…  
  
But only to still me. To prevent me from moving toward him.  
  
Still trying to figure him out, I look back up at him and the moment has passed. He gives me a sad smile and actually leans his forehead against mine.  
  
Closing his eyes, he releases a breath through his teeth, as if he can blow away the tension between us.   
  
“Hermione,” he murmurs, in a sort of pleading tone, “this is a really bad idea.”  
  
Shock and embarrassment and years of wasted hopes flood over me like a deluge, and it’s all I can do not to flee from the flat. But I will be _damned_ if I will be the one to cause any awkwardness between us. I refuse to let him make me angry or disappointed or hurt.   
  
We’re not children anymore, and it’s time for me to let go of all the unanswered questions once and for all.   
  
Mustering as much courage as I can, I gently place my hands on Ron’s chest and push him back slightly.   
  
“Ron. It’s okay. It was just a moment, yeah?”  
  
He looks stunned that I’m not yelling or crying or something else equally unpleasant.  
  
“Hermione, it would be really easy for us to fall into this. So comfortable, and simple … and then afterwards, well, it just wouldn’t be … _enough._ I don’t want us to feel awkward for the rest of our lives because of one night.”   
  
_One night. That’s what it would be for him._  
  
“Yeah, you’re right. Definitely. It would be a mistake.” I smile up at him, and he looks relieved, but still unsettled.  
  
He hugs me again, and I feel like I might break under the weight of his squeeze, like a shell. _I’ve got to get out of here._  
  
“Listen, Ron, I have to be at work early tomorrow for a grant meeting. I’d better get going.” He nods and helps me gather my things. Sees me out into the hallway, where I bid him goodnight with another forced smile.   
  
“See you,” I manage, just before I Apparate back to my flat and crumple to the floor in a heap where I’m standing.   



	2. Chapter 2

_Six months later…_    


I adore my job. Despite the knowledge that I did truly earn my appointment to the new Department, I am still a bit humbled that I was chosen for this position. And I thank the fates every day that I’m here. It’s the perfect career for me.    


Complementary medicine, scoffed at by most reputable Healers a mere decade ago, has seen true growth and acceptance since my school days. During those two years when the number of injuries skyrocketed out of control at the hands of Death Eaters, when there never seemed to be enough beds at St. Mungo’s, when ordinary wizards were willing to try anything to combat the new, diabolical forms of spell damage that traditional healing couldn’t touch—complementary medicine gained new respect from those who had long doubted it.    


Even its biggest detractors couldn’t argue with the proven results.    


After Voldemort’s defeat, complementary medicine began to be referred to as _progressive medicine_ , rather than _Muggle medicine_ , and soon there was talk of the creation of a new Department at the hospital, in the Division of Healing Research. The Complementary Medicine Department was founded in early 2000, with up and coming Healer Augustus Pye named to the Head of the Department. Gus Pye, in addition to being a vocal advocate for the growing field, was a decorated hero for his efforts during the war. He used new techniques, risking losing his job, countless times, and saved many lives in the process.   


The Department grew rapidly, what with many wizards requesting new healing techniques and methods they had read about or heard tell of during the war. Within a year, Gus and the Hospital Board were looking for more staff members, and new Minister for Magic Mafalda Hopkirk recommended me for the job. I was asked to come aboard to help manage--and grow--the Department. I’ve been there for almost 18 months.    


Complementary medicine is becoming a more established practice everyday, and I am immensely proud of my role in this …well, _revolution_ of sorts. History will speak of this time as a new dawn for Wizarding medicine, and a time when the best bits of two worlds came together for the good of all.    


Working with Gus is great. We’re very like-minded, and we approach problems the same way. As I’m packing my things at the end another gratifying day, I watch him at his task of carefully separating mold spores under the microscope, when he feels my gaze and lifts his head.    


“Going home?” he asks.   


“Yes, I was just about to. These samples I’ve prepared need to incubate overnight, so there’s not much more I can do until the morning. Is that alright?”   


He shuts off the lamp on the scope and takes off his gloves. “Hermione, I’m not your boss. You’re as qualified as I am to be here, I just got here first.”   


“Thanks, Gus, but--”   


“Besides,” he says with a bit of a chuckle, “you’re making me feel quite old.”   


“Oh. Sorry.” I realize suddenly that I do tend to address him a bit formally, which is silly, given the sheer volume of time we spend together. But I have a great deal of respect and admiration for Gus, and it’s tough to break my habit of defaulting towards traditional student/teacher interaction.    


He is looking at me like he’s about to say something more, when an owl swoops into the lab and deposits a scroll of parchment on my desk. When I make to open it, however, I see that it is addressed to Gus and hand it to him.    


“Thanks,” he says, taking the parchment from my hand and unrolling it. And upon seeing its contents, adds, “Ah, bugger…I knew she’d do this to me…”   


_She?_ I know little of Gus’s personal life, so naturally I’m intrigued. I pretend to be gathering my things into my bag, but curiosity gets the better of me.    


“Everything alright?” I ask.    


He looks back at me with pause, as if he’s considering whether to tell me something.    


“Yeah, it’s just my sister cancelling our plans for tonight.”    


“Oh. That’s too bad.”   


“She and I have been taking these… _don’t laugh_ …dance lessons. She convinced me to do it with her…she’s having a big wedding next month and she was in a right state about how our mum sold us short, never having taught us how to dance _properly_ …I think it’s all to do with that crazy bride-to-be thing…’Course, why her fiancée couldn’t be arsed to come with us is beyond me…    


He pauses to look at me and I’m suddenly aware that I must have a sort of gobsmacked expression on my face because he immediately seems embarrassed to have been going on. I’m just a bit surprised, is all, as we don’t usually chat about our personal lives. Not in detail, at any rate.   


“Anyway,” he says, “look, I’m boring you with all this.”   


I hold up a hand in feeble reassurance. “No, no, Gus. It’s perfectly fine. It sounds fun, actually. Sorry she can’t make it.”   


“She can’t get away from work. Still, I have to go. She’s springing for the lessons and they’re already paid for - she’ll have my head if I skive off.”   


“Oh, well. At least you’ll be in great form for the big wedding, right?” I zip up my satchel and heave it, with great effort, over my shoulder. Really, I need to stop bringing quite _so much_ work home.    


“Yeah…” he says, looking at me peculiarly. “Hermione, do you need to be anywhere right now?”    


“I’m sorry?”    


“It’s just that if you show up without a partner they pair you off, and there’s this woman--Alice--and she’s very pleasant, but, well…” He’s trying to put it delicately.    


“Two left feet?” I offer. He smiles gratefully.   


“My toes hurt for two days last time I paired with her. …listen, don’t worry. I shouldn’t have put you in the spot like that.” _On the spot?_ Hang on, he’s asking me to go with him.   


“See you Monday, then?” he finishes, clearly embarrassed at having asked.    


“No, Gus, I’ll do it.” _I will?_ Yes, sure, I will. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve nowhere else to be tonight.   


“Really?”    


“Yeah, sure. I was going to go downtown to get a bite anyway, as I have nothing at home.” This is not a lie, as I really have nothing to eat at my flat. I’ve been too busy to go to the market all week.     


“Great. Let’s grab something, then, first. The lesson’s at 7.” And with that, we’re off.    


For the sake of convenience, we head to Diagon Alley and decide to just pop into the Leaky for a quick bite. It’s warm for an autumn evening, and I’m glad to take my cloak off when we enter the even warmer pub. As I turn to hang it on a hook next to the booth where we’ve deposited our things, I hear Gus say behind me, “Oh, look, your friends are here.”   


I turn quickly, and sure enough, see a typically cheerful Ginny approaching us, followed closely by Ron, Harry, and George. They appear to have been at the bar, as they all have half-finished drinks in hand.    


“Hermione, is that you? My eyes must be deceiving me,” she says cheekily. “We haven’t seen you out in over two weeks.” And she leans forward to give me a little hug. It _is_ good to see them.    


“Hey, Ginny. Hi everyone. You all remember Gus, from my Department?” They nod their hellos, and handshaking and small talk ensues. I notice Ron hangs back a bit, not saying much. He seems a bit quiet, but I dismiss the thought quickly. He can still be shy sometimes when meeting new people.    


Gus invites them to join us, and they accept. For some reason, I’m not sure how I feel about this. It feels a bit strange, and I can’t riddle out why. Must be the two worlds colliding thing, I suppose.    


Ron slides into the booth next to me and gives me a proper greeting, finally. Leans over and kisses me on the temple, as is his custom with me. Given our height difference, I suppose it’s less of an effort than bending lower to reach my cheek.    


Harry and George immediately start asking Gus questions. I suppose it’s refreshing to have someone at the table about whom they don’t already know _every last thing_. My thoughts drift a bit as I survey Harry affectionately across from me. He looks so different and so much happier these days. It’s only in the last year or so that he’s really figured out who he is, what makes him happy. And it suits him.    


“Really, it’s Hermione who’s made the most progress with the new remedies for plant poisoning,” I hear Gus say. “Her predictions have produced the most viable antidotes.”   


I look at George, who at the moment looks just like his father, enchanted by all things Muggle. I say reasonably, “I only combined well-known herbal Muggle treatments with our established potions. Any Girl Guide could have guessed what to test.”   


“She’s being modest,” Gus says. “She’s brilliant.” He looks at me, unashamed to be singing my praises.    


“We know,” more than one of them says in unison, and I roll my eyes good-naturedly.    


I feel my face redden and realize I’m most likely blushing.  But it’s tough to be sure, as it’s warm in here. And it doesn’t help that we’re all squeezed into a booth that’s probably a bit too small for us. I’m wedged snugly between the wall and the long length of Ron’s body--a circumstance that creates its own heat.   


I can’t deny that even though I’ve long buried any hope of something happening between Ron and me, sitting so close to him, feeling his strong thigh pressed up against my own on the wooden bench, still heightens my sensitivity to touch.    


Much to my relief, he has never mentioned that night I embarrassed myself with my overactive imagination. And astonishingly, it hasn’t created any awkwardness between us either. It’s truly as though it never happened, and that’s the way I prefer it. I still get to spend time with him and be close to him, like tonight. Well, like _always_. The main difference now, though, is that there is no _wondering_. No element of uncertainty. I know what the limits are, and I am careful not to encroach upon them.    


Usually.   


Still, when he bends down to say something that is just meant for me to hear, and I feel his warm breath against my ear, and I turn my head and meet those unreasonably blue eyes looking at me the way only he can…I just can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be capable of being near him without my insides turning to jelly.    


Dinner is over before I know it, and Gus and I take our leave. The Muggle dance studio is in the basement of a large brick building, for which I am immediately grateful, as it is much cooler than the air outside.    


Our instructor, who Gus has told me is named Elena Del Espadin, or Dona Elena, is recognizable straight away across the room. She is a striking woman, perhaps in her late 50s, with silver hair pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She is wearing a long black skirt, slit up the side, with a lacy blue shawl wrapped tightly around her upper body. Reportedly, Gus says, Dona Elena was born somewhere in Italy, and had a celebrated career as a flamenco dancer in Paris.    


“Who is this?” she says sharply to Gus, upon seeing me at his side. My eyebrows raise involuntarily at her lack of decorum. Gus seems undaunted, though, apparently used to her brusque manner.   


“This is my friend, Hermione. She’ll be dancing with me tonight, in place of Charlotte.”   


She sizes me up without subtlety and finally says, “Fine. But I will not teach from the beginning. It’s not fair to the other students. You will have to catch her up,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand as she’s walking away. “ _You_ lead, _she_ follows.”   


Gus actually snorts a bit, laughing.   


“What?” I ask, suspiciously.    


“As if you’ve ever followed anyone in your life.” He’s smiling at me now, teasing. And then before I can say anything more, Dona Elena starts the music and Gus quickly takes my waist.    


It takes me a few minutes to fall into step. I recognize the music--salsa, no, rumba--which I vaguely remember from some dance classes I took in another lifetime at my parents’ golf club. But Gus is a strong lead, and it’s really easy to follow him. Before long, I am concentrating less on the movement of my feet, and find I have a moment to reflect on the surreal nature of the scene.    


If someone had told me this morning that I’d be doing _anything_ outside of work with Gus this evening, I would have been surprised. But to be dancing with him, in such close contact, and for it to feel entirely… _comfortable_ , well, I would have thought that just plain mad.    


And yet, here we are. Gus is taller than me, but not too tall. It’s not a strain to meet his eyes as we move. He is broad-shouldered, yet somehow leaner than his frame would imply. _Sinewy_. This must be the result of how often he runs--almost every night after work, in fact--which I knew, but have never given much thought to before now.   


His hands are large and warm, and the requirements of the dance excuse the boldness with which he allows them to handle me. A firm pull against the small of my back to lead me toward him in step. The way his palm cups the curve of my hip in preparation of a turn. His touch is firm, and confident, and I can’t believe he’s new to dancing, he’s so natural at it.    


Again, I find myself surprised at how easy we are with each other. How this is not at all awkward. Maybe because we already know each other so well; we’re merely transferring our established rhythm of working together to a new exercise.     


But the way he holds me feels lovely. And the dance itself, coupled with such an attentive dance partner, make me feel very _feminine_ , an indulgence I haven’t given myself over to in quite some time.     


This sudden realization catches me off guard, causing me to miss a step, and I apologize quietly to him under my breath, “Sorry, my mistake.”   


Gus smiles and jokes, “ _Shocking_.”   


“Stop talking!” Dona Elena practically screams. “There is no talking! Dancing is its own language. You dance well, you no need talk!”    


When she turns away, Gus exaggeratedly mimes speaking, and I giggle ( _giggle?)_ like a schoolgirl. It’s entirely juvenile, but for some reason the whole exchange is funnier than it should be. Maybe it’s just the stark contrast between this silly Gus and the serious, driven Gus I work with everyday.    


But whatever the reason, it’s fun. Toward the end of the lesson, Dona Elena demonstrates a complicated variation on one of the steps, and she pulls us up to demonstrate it for the rest of the class. I think she may have been hoping we’d mess it up, but we pull it off without a hitch, to the applause of our classmates.    


“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he says, when the class disperses, “that was brilliant.” Something about his word choice gives me pause.   


“Did I say something wrong? Pardon my language--”   


“No, not at all. I’m just exhausted is all. This was really fun.” I can tell my use of the word _was_ has taken him by surprise. He wasn’t aware that the night was quite over.    


Neither was I, actually, until a few moments ago when I felt like I really needed to get home. As we gather our things and climb the stairs up to the street, I search inwardly for the meaning of my ambivalence.    


When we get to the sidewalk, he says quickly, “Hermione? Can we do this again?”   


“Er, a dance lesson? But I thought your sister--”   


“No, not dance. Well, I mean unless you wanted to …what I mean to say is I’d be happy to do whatever…” He trails off, looking down at his feet for the first time all night.   


“Shite, Hermione, I’m not very good at this I’m afraid.” He raises his head to look at me again. “I was trying to ask you out.”   


_Oh._ I didn’t see that coming. Why didn’t I see that coming? For some reason, all I can do is blink at him.    


He goes on, trying to explain his way through my blank expression. “Er, on a date?”   


Immediately my brain lurches into high gear, searching frantically for a good reason to decline the invitation. One that won’t hurt his feelings, or damage our working relationship, or…   


“I…er…” I stammer, as he looks at me expectantly.    


The requisite amount of time must have passed where he’s stopped waiting for my response and interpreted my silence as a rejection, because I can see his expression changing. He’s gearing up to dismiss the issue, to find a way to gracefully change the subject.    


And looking at him, I’m suddenly struck with the realization that I don’t _want_ to decline. I have nothing to keep me from spending time with Gus. No other commitments. And I can’t even truthfully claim disinterest.    


I had fun tonight. Actual laughing, engaging, time-flying-by _fun_. And--oh, my--I realize for the first time that I was even flirting. And it felt _good_.    


Gus opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off. “Okay,” I say, before he has another second to rescind the offer.   


“Really?” His eyebrows disappear up into his sandy blonde fringe, scraggly from the lesson.    


I take a deep breath and nod in a way that I hope looks enthusiastic, and smile back at him. “Really. I’d like that, Gus. I think it would be fun.”   


“Brilliant,” he says, looking relieved. And more than a little pleased. He looks younger, too, as he nervously runs a hand through his hair. Adorable, actually.   


Finally, he speaks. “So… I’ll see you on Monday, at work, and we’ll pick a day, yeah?   


“Yes. Okay.” My mouth hurts from smiling. “Goodnight, Gus.”   


“’Night, Hermione.”   


And he Disapparates, leaving me to wonder how _that_ happened.   
   



	3. Chapter 3

Something’s changed. I can’t put a finger on it, but looking in the mirror at myself, I feel differently than I did just yesterday. What’s there that wasn’t there before?   
  


Cheerfulness? Maybe.  
  


Optimism? A bit.  
  


Pride? Vanity?  
  


With a pang of guilt, I realize that might be closest to the mark. It goes against every fibre of my being to admit to myself that the condition of my self-esteem is any way connected to the attentions of a man.   
  


However…  
  


I can’t deny how wonderful it feels. To be noticed. To know that someone wants to spend time with me.   
  


And not just anyone. Someone clever, and fun. _And handsome…_ I really feel like I have something to look forward to. For the first time in a long time.   
  


Today, though, I have other plans. So, my daydreamy musings will have to take a hiatus. I wrap my excitement up like a little gift and tuck it away, and flashing one last secret smile to the stranger in the mirror, I throw my hair up into a haphazard knot and hurry to finish getting dressed.   
  


~~0~~  
  


After requesting and receiving entrance to the school grounds, I spend a few minutes wandering the property, reminiscing, before I start to descend the hill to Hagrid’s hut.  
  


I spot Harry immediately, shovelling feed from a large wheelbarrow into a wooden trough in the pen next to the vegetable patch. _What eats purple feed?_ I wonder to no one.   
  


His back is to me, and so he hasn’t noticed my approach. I take the opportunity to stop and just watch him for a minute. Because he is so different--guarded--when he knows someone _is_ watching.   
  


His hair is much longer than he ever wore it when we were younger, falling past the nape of his neck. It falls in soft waves around the sides of his face, rather than sticking straight out everywhere the way it once did. Perhaps, though, that’s just because it’s a bit damp with sweat.   
  


It suits him; it’s very masculine.  
  


The faded, form-fitting shirt he’s wearing is nearly worn through at the elbows, and I can’t help noticing the way his sturdy shoulder blades roll gently beneath it. His shoulders are broad and strong, and his arms lift one heavy shovelful after another with ease.   
  


Who would have ever thought that the skinny little boy I met so long ago on the school train would turn into a young man who was…well, _rugged_. And sort of brawny.  
  


Ginny is one lucky witch.  
  


Harry finally senses my presence and turns, lighting up when he sees me standing here. I am amazed, as always, at how relaxed and contented he looks in this environment.   
  


It took some getting used to, to be sure, his career choice. Or lack thereof.   
  


After having worked so long toward his goal of becoming an Auror, Harry just found that when all was said and done, he’d had more than his fill of battling dark wizards. He simply declined the invitation to training.   
  


Later, both the Wasps and the Pride of Portree invited him to try out, but even his love of flying couldn’t counteract the unappealing notion of being in the insistent spotlight of professional Quidditch.   
  


McGonagall offered him an official post at the school, but he passed that, too. And so, instead, he spends most of his days assisting Hagrid in preparing for Care of Magical creatures classes, as an unofficial assistant. He won’t take a salary or housing from the school, just says he wants to be there. To give back.   
  


This choice surprised everyone but Ginny, who both predicted it and encouraged it. It seemed that after all was said and done, she knew how to take care of him even better than Ron and I did. And I’ve never seen him happier.  
  


“Hey, there,” he says now, finally reaching me and striding up to offer a warm sweaty hug.   
  


“Good afternoon, sir,” I say into his shoulder. “Hungry?”  
  


“You bet. Let me just get cleaned up and tell Hagrid I’m leaving.”   
  


“Hermione!” I hear as Hagrid bounds out of the hut, making me jump nearly out of my shoes. He pulls me up into an embrace that no other can rival, and despite the slight crunch of my spine, if he does this a thousand more times in my life, I’ll never tire of it.   
  


I chat a bit with Hagrid as Harry disappears into the hut for a minute, presumably for a quick _Scourgify_ and a change of clothes.   
  


Finally, Harry emerges from the hut and we take our leave. We invite Hagrid along, but he declines the offer. “Naw, not today, you two go on. You need to catch up on each other. Next time,” he promises, as we make our way up the hill.   
  


For old time’s sake (or maybe just because it’s the easiest thing to do), we decide to get a bite at the Three Broomsticks. Before we’ve even chosen a table, Rosmerta approaches, flirting shamelessly with Harry. He’ll never be used to the attention. He’ll always assume it’s for _who_ he is, rather than for what he’s become…that is, an extraordinarily desirable young man. Truth is, he gets noticed even in Muggle pubs.   
  


Most people in the village are getting used to him being around by now, too, allowing him a greater level of anonymity than if he were in the city. When he’s in London, he spends most of his time at home at Grimmauld Place or at the same few pubs we always frequent. Where he knows he won’t be bothered. Or rather, where people know that Ginny will hex them if they bother him. _Which reminds me…_  
  


“How are things with Ginny?” I inquire, not really having spent time with either of them since my birthday.   
  


He blushes at the mention of her name.  
  


I mean _actually_ blushes, and they’ve been together, finally, for over two years.  
  


“Just keeps getting better,” he says openly. “I keep thinking we’re as close as two people can be, but then we find even more common ground. Funny, yeah?”  
  


_Not really._ “It’s great, Harry.”   
  


“Can I ask your advice, Hermione?”  
  


“Of course. Is that why you asked me to lunch today?”   
  


He shrugs guiltily. “Do you think it’s too soon to be thinking about…asking Ginny to get married?”  
  


_What?_ I nearly spit my pumpkin juice out. “I’m sorry?”  
  


“Too soon?” he asks sheepishly, grimacing at my reaction.   
  


“No! I mean… I’m just… only because I didn’t realize you were thinking about this. But it doesn’t seem all that shocking in itself, really. You know, now that I think on it, it’s a bit surprising that it hasn’t happened before now.”  
  


He smiles gratefully at me, and I hope I’m being encouraging. But inside all I can think about is how we’re old enough to be considering things like _getting married_. How did _that_ happen so soon?  
  


“So, when are you thinking about doing this?” I ask, as casually as if I’m asking about the new wallpaper he’s hanging in his parlour.   
  


“Maybe this winter,” says Harry. “Something small. Depending on what Ginny wants--”  
  


“No, Harry I meant asking her!” He’s so adorable, already envisioning the actual event.   
  


“Oh! Right. Well. Other than you, I’ve only spoken to Ron about it, but I think I’d like to talk to Molly and Arthur before I ask Ginny.”   
  


He must anticipate some objection to this on my part, because he immediately begins explaining. “I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, and it’s not really to ask for their permission, just their blessing--”  
  


“It’s _okay_ , Harry. I think it’s a nice gesture. They’ll be thrilled.” And, of course, they will be. Harry’s been part of the family for so long it’s almost a formality at this point.  
  


“So, what did Ron think?”  
  


“Sorry?”  
  


“You said you’d talked to Ron about it. What did he say?”  
  


“Oh, he was all for it. Ginny and me, I mean. I expect he was a bit shocked, though. You should have seen the look on his face…said he couldn’t believe we’re old enough to be thinking about _getting married_.”  
  


Of course he did. Ron doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to settle down with one person. I’ve seen him date a dozen different women over the last couple of years, in point of fact. He seems to be focusing more on quantity than quality, as it were.   
  


And at times it’s been tough to watch. Someone who doesn’t even know so much as his favourite _colour_ with her hands all over him. My only comfort has been in the fact that it _has_ been so many different women, rather than one special one, which I’m not sure I could bear to see…  
  


“Hermione?” Harry is looking at me with concern.   
  


“Sorry, just thinking.”  
  


“Need I ask who about?” He knows, of course. And his knowing is like salt in the wound. Even though he’s been nothing but supportive, his sympathy always seems to make me feel worse. As if it punctuates the emptiness somehow.  
  


The non-existence of my own love life.  
  


But I can’t use that excuse to wallow anymore. I have options now, and I’m bound and determined to explore some of them.   
  


He’s still watching me with curiosity. I desperately need some input on my new…opportunity. So I decide to feel him out.  
  


“Harry, what do you think of Gus?”   
  


“Your co-worker Gus? Seems like a nice bloke. Why do you ask?”  
  


“He’s asked me on a date.” Well, the eyebrows are up, but not much more reaction yet. “And I’ve said yes.” That should do it.   
  


Predictably, Harry looks a bit flustered, running a hand through his long hair nervously. “Wow,” he says, finally.   
  


“That’s all? Wow? I was hoping for a bit more input, Harry.”   
  


“I’m not really sure what to say, Hermione. I mean, Gus seems like a great bloke. And he’s obviously into you-“  
  


_Really?_ “What?”  
  


“Well, yeah, of course. When we saw you last night in town he couldn’t take his eyes off you all through dinner.”   
  


“You’re being serious?”  
  


Now he’s laughing at me. “ _Yes_ , Hermione. Blokes notice you. _Frequently_. You just don’t usually notice them noticing you, because your attention is always…er…elsewhere.” And just like that, we’re back on topic again.   
  


“Argh… Harry, I don’t want to think about Ron right now. I really need to focus on this thing with Gus. I’d be mad not to jump at the offer.”  
  


“Is that what you really want?” He seems unconvinced. As do I, now that I think on it, which serves only to anger me, as I was terribly happy about the whole prospect just hours ago.   
  


“Does it matter what I really want?” I can’t help it, it just comes out. And the moment it does, I know I’ve reinforced Harry’s suspicions.   
  


“I’m sorry, Hermione. I guess I just thought things would be different by now. I don’t mean to bring it all up. Look, why don’t you let me talk to Ron once and for all?”  
  


“Good God, Harry, _no_. I can’t live with that. If he doesn’t see it on his own, I won’t have him persuaded, for heaven’s sake.”   
  


He shakes his head at me, frustrated at the same old argument. “Alright, Hermione. It’s your choice. I hope this thing with Gus turns out the way you want it to. I’d like to see you have a little fun, is all.”   
  


Me too, Harry. _Me too._  
  


~~0~~  
  


One week later, as I toss aside the seventh dress I’ve tried on for my big date with Gus, I wonder for the thousandth time what the _hell_ I could have possibly been thinking. I _can’t do this._ He’ll be here in less than an hour and I’m shaking like a startled niffler.   
  


_Get yourself together, Hermione._   
  


It’s. Just. Gus.   
  


I see him every day. I’ve seen him at his best and possibly close to his worst. I’ve seen him with mud on his pants, with exploded potion in his hair, with a head cold the size of all London and a red nose to match.   
  


I know there’s no pressure. Gus is not the type to rush things between us on any level. So why am I such a mess at the moment?  
  


Taking a deep breath, I try to fall into my usual method for dealing with nervousness.   
  


_Prepare_. When you fail to plan, you plan to fail, after all.   
  


I take a deep breath and mentally review the topics I’ve prepared myself to discuss. Just the right balance between work-related issues and personal anecdotes.   
  


Take more deep breaths. Dinner with Gus can’t be any more terrifying than any other challenge I’ve faced.   
  


Feeling much better, I renew my quest for clothing and decide on a simple, fitted black jumper and long flowing purple silk skirt. It’s feminine, but not flashy. Pretty, yet comfortable.   
  


I smile smugly in the mirror. Again, when you consider all the factors and come to a reasonable conclusion, the rest just falls into place. Simple, right?  
  


I hear a knock at my door.   
  


_Oh, God._   
  


_Breathe, Hermione._   
  


As I approach the door, indeed I feel I might pass out. But when I open it to reveal Gus’s wide grin, I relax immediately. He looks eager, and happy…not to mention incredibly handsome in dress slacks and a jacket.   
  


I open my mouth to greet him, but no words seem to find their way out.   
  


He hands over a bunch of flowers awkwardly. Wildflowers. Not flashy, just charming. Like him.   
  


“Hi there,” he says. “I know it’s a bit corny--flowers--but I felt like I should start things off properly.”  
  


“You look beautiful, by the way,” he adds hurriedly, afraid I’ll consider it an afterthought if he waits any longer.   
  


I can’t help but smile. He’s nervous, too. The realization is a relief, and sets me at ease. We’re in this--whatever _this_ is--together.   
  


Emboldened, I hold the flowers aside and lean up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks, Gus. They’re wonderful.” I turn on my heel and head to the kitchen to get a vase, leaving him a bit surprised and, if I’m not mistaken, even blushing slightly.   
  


This is going to be easier than I thought.   
  


~~0~~  
  


Dinner is lovely, of course. Gus has chosen a small restaurant in Muggle London that is intimate and comfortable, and yet formal enough that I don’t feel overdressed.   
  


I realize before our entrees are even served that I won’t need to trot out my planned topics of discussion. Conversation comes easily with Gus, and on more than one occasion we laugh enthusiastically enough to turn the heads of the couple next to us.   
  


When our plates are cleared, Gus suddenly becomes a bit serious.   
  


“Hermione, I need to tell you something…I think I’ll feel better if I do.”  
  


I nod vaguely, hoping that he’s not about to tell me he’s a Death Eater or something.  
  


“You remember when you first started at the Department, I told you I remembered meeting you at the hospital a few years back?”   
  


“Yes, of course. When Arthur Weasley was attacked.”  
  


He nods. “Yes, precisely. Well, I think when I said that, you may have assumed I remembered you because you were Harry Potter’s friend.” This is exactly what I thought, in fact. It’s how people have introduced themselves to me many times in recent years.   
  


But Gus is looking at me earnestly. “Truth is, Hermione, Harry had nothing to do with my remembering you. I knew who you were before you started work, and I remembered you not as Harry Potter’s friend, but as that beautiful girl who asked me about a hundred questions that Christmas so long ago.”  
  


“Really?” To say that I’m flattered by this piece of information would be more than an understatement. I hope I don’t look as dumbstruck as I feel. But honestly, since when do _I_ make a lasting impression on someone?  
  


For his part, Gus looks a little embarrassed. “Hell, you were adorable. There you were, asking me all earnestly about the similarities between a Muggle ointment and a Wizarding poultice, and all I could think about was how I wished you were older so I could ask you out.”  
  


“I had no idea.”   
  


“I know.” He chuckles. “It was obvious you were completely unaware of how attractive you were, just as you are now.”   
  


_Wow_. As I am inexplicably speechless, he continues.  
  


“Anyway, when you were suggested for the founding staff for the department, I almost lost my shite. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I saw your credentials, I knew you were more than capable…that you’d be an asset. But I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to work with someone I fancied. But then you stormed in and blew me away with your work, your competency, and well…” he smiles guiltily, “I thought that would make me see you differently, but it actually just made me even more attracted to you.”  
  


_How could I not know this? Am I a complete idiot?_   
  


“Sorry. That sounds a bit forward, I know. I just felt like I should tell you that I’ve been thinking about all this for a while, and that it wasn’t just some spur-of-the-moment thing. Asking you out, I mean.”  
  


I’m not sure what I should do with this information, but I say, “Thanks, Gus. I’m glad you told me. And I’m flattered, and sorry I never suspected-”  
  


“No, believe me, it’s much better that you didn’t know. I’m thankful we’ve become friends without any awkwardness.”  
  


“I’m pleased, too.” And I am pleased. Pleased to know this wonderful man, pleased I came on this date tonight, and pleased to call him my friend. Although, I think I’m beginning to consider him more than a friend.   
  


And I’m pleased about that, too.  
  


~~0~~  
  


Later, as we are walking back to my flat, I steal surreptitious glances at him. I still find it a bit hard to believe all that he’s told me tonight. The whole evening has been like something from a novel, from Gus’s admission to the crisp autumn leaves that swirl about our feet.  
  


When we round the corner of my street, I’m actually sorry at the prospect it all coming to a close so quickly. With a quick glance at my watch, I surprise us both by asking him in. His look of sheer astonishment alarms me, and I immediately back-pedal, worried that’s he’s misinterpreted my offer.   
  


“Oh! I just meant, you know, for a drink or something…” _Oh, God._ He probably thinks I’m some slag or something.   
  


“Yeah, sure, Hermione. That’d be great. It’s early, after all.”   
  


“Yes,” I say with a sigh of relief. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” However, as he follows me up the interior staircase of my apartment building, and I’m acutely aware of the view he must have of me, it all seems rather intimate. And I’m nervous again, as I close the door behind us. But somehow in a way that is preferable to my pre-date jitters.   
  


“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing toward the parlour while already heading to my small kitchen. I need a task to distract myself. “Can I get you something to drink?” I call out to him.   
  


“Thanks. Whatever you’re having, Hermione.”   
  


Why is it that opening a bottle of red wine seems like a much more labour-intensive task when you’re in a hurry? Now that I’m stalling for time, it takes me all of three seconds, and I’m back in the parlour in no time, where I find him sitting on the settee.   
  


After delivering the goblet, I face a seemingly momentous decision. One on which I’m sure something important must depend. I can take the seat next to him, or opt for the chair. I detest my tendency to perseverate on the meaning of such small choices. It slows me down.  
  


  
  


_Oh, the hell with it._   
  


Careful not to spill my glass, I kick off my shoes and tuck my feet under me as I settle onto the settee by his side.  
  


The carefree conversation of two hours ago is suddenly beyond either of us, and we both nurse our drinks, looking for a way to begin again.   
  


“Thank you,” I manage finally. “For this evening, I mean. Dinner was nice.” I hope it sounds better to his ears than mine. Because to me its sounds suspiciously like small talk, and I want to move past that.   
  


_Wait._   
  


I want to move past that?  
  


_I do._   
  


“Maybe we can do this again sometime?” he ventures. _Please_ say he’s not getting ready to leave. I’ve only just made up my mind. It would be just my luck if I’ve taken so long to do so that he’s changed his.   
  


My mind races--scrambles--for words. The ones that will keep him in my flat a bit longer, but not appear too eager.   
  


_Say something._   
  


He looks unbelievably appealing, hair still windswept, face still flushed from the night air.   
  


_Something witty._ _Or interesting._ _Or, you know, with the speaking._   
  


I can’t believe this man is interested in me.  
  


_Oh, sod it all._ Am I a Gryffindor or not?  
  


In barely enough time for me to register the look of surprise on his face, I lean forward and quickly press my lips to his. Before I lose my nerve.   
  


I feel, rather than hear, the gasp from Gus’s mouth as he raises one hand to the side of my face. What he’s lacking in preparedness, though, he quickly makes up for in enthusiasm. His lips are warm and firm on mine, and he fumbles to place his glass on the table behind the settee so he can bring his other hand up to cup my cheek while his lips slowly rest against my own. Not moving, just _there_.  
  


After a moment, I pull back to look at him and he smiles a smile at me that makes a dull heat whorl in my middle. I’m dimly aware of him taking my glass from me and setting it aside, for which I am thankful. I’d forgotten I was still holding it, and without question it would have soon been in our laps.   
  


The next kiss is all his doing.   
  


Leaning in to me once more, his lips open just barely, and his tongue sweeps gently against my bottom lip. This time, the moan comes from me, and my arms find their way around his neck and I pull him to me. With what intention I’m not entirely clear.   
  


He smells _brilliant_. Like soap and night and the new season. Why is it that when his fingers weave their way into my hair, gently grazing my scalp, the sensation is curiously intimate? When his mouth slants against mine, and opens more fully, I’m quite ready for it and welcome him in.  
  


What I’m _not_ prepared for, however, is the rush of warmth that the new intimacy generates within me. I follow his lead with my tongue, learning from his kiss, and relish the mysterious heightening of my senses.   
  


Admittedly, my knowledge with men is quite limited. I’ve been on a few dates, most of them with blokes who were perfectly nice, but …well--missing something. Dates that resulted in kissing and some half-hearted groping that in the end amounted to little more than going through the motions on my part. An experiment.   
  


I’ve felt the stir of real desire, but only in dreams. And in the schoolgirl fantasies I used to know, the ones starring a frequently recurring player in the leading role. Those were the days when I lay in my bed imagining what it might feel like. But true arousal has been perennially absent from my real world experience.   
  


But this, _this_ is real. Tangible.  
  


After a moment, Gus pulls back once more, tracing my cheekbone with his thumb. I’m not sure what I should say, so I just use the opportunity to catalogue his striking features. His skin is a bit more weathered than is usual for someone of his age; perhaps from spending so much time at outdoor pursuits. And it’s difficult to believe I’ve never taken notice of his eyes. They’re such a light shade of green that they’re almost grey.   
  


His lips are swollen and his cheeks are flushed. I’m certain I must look the same, but somehow I don’t mind.   
  


“Everything alright?” he murmurs, glancing instinctively down to my mouth. A brief nod of my head is all it takes for him to return eagerly to my lips.  
  


Suddenly, things are much less tentative. Gus gently nibbles my lower lip with his teeth, and I gladly open up to his kiss, taking him in fully, exploring without hesitation. I am in awe of how my whole body sings at the simple sensation of tongue sliding against tongue. I never imagined such a small thing to be so intimate.  
  


And just when I think it can’t possibly get any better, he pulls his attention from my mouth to trail light kisses along my jaw line, straight back to a soft place beneath my ear that apparently is where all human nerve endings congregate.   
  


To my chagrin, I realize I’m holding onto his shoulders as tightly as if I were clinging to a life raft, and so I take in a ragged breath, and allow my hands to roam over his strong arms, his chest. He leans back against the settee and takes a long look at me. The way he’s looking at me, wanting me ( _me_!), makes me feel cherished in a way I’ve never felt.   
  


I could get used to it.  
  


“Hermione--”  
  


_Not now._ I cut him off with a kiss, moving closer to him. _Over_ him, actually, so that he has no choice but to wrap his arms around my waist. The lazy way he traces his fingertips along the exposed skin above the hem of my skirt is in direct contrast to the increased heat--no, _frenzy_ \--of our kisses. His hands are large and warm and feel so unbelievably perfect against my skin.  
  


I can feel the subtle arch of my back as my body takes the initiative on behalf of my inexperience. Something in me is wanting … _more_ , although I have no idea what, exactly. What I do know is that I can’t get close enough, and, without considering the consequences, I slowly move astride him, so that I am fully in his lap. He communicates his approval with a sexy groan that comes from somewhere deep within him.   
  


Those marvellous fingers find their way under my jumper and up my sides to the outer edges of my breasts, thumbs testing the boundaries. The limits.   
  


“Hermione...” he murmurs against my mouth.   
  


“Yes,” comes my answer to a question he never has a chance to ask.   
  


Slowly, and with a maddeningly gentle touch, he drags one thumb across my nipple, and I feel the heat rise within me once more. Unbidden, my hands find their way up his arms and into his hair, fingers threading through it and clutching, as I deepen our kiss. Evidently he interprets this as approval, because he continues to tease me through the thin fabric of my bra. It feels brilliant and frustrating all at once, and it’s driving me mad.   
  


Then, all at once, he shifts our weight and I feel him. Hard beneath me.   
  


A shiver, born of equal parts fear and thrill, runs through me with the comprehension that _I’m_ doing that to him. It makes me feel wanted, and maybe for the first time… _sexy_. The dull ache in me grows exponentially until it becomes a distinct need, and soon I’m searching, reaching for some resolution. Amidst the kissing and touching, I instinctively roll my hips against him and finally pinpoint what my body’s been longing for.   
  


And it’s _amazing_. Like a shockwave throughout my whole body. Immediately I make to repeat the motion, the sensation. And I grind, _just so_ , tilting my pelvis more directly against him.  
  


Experimentally, of course.  
  


His reaction is immediate, moving his hands down to grip my hips and pull me down against him. I can’t help it; I close my eyes and arch into him once more, with a bit more pressure this time, and swallow his throaty moan.   
  


The rational me knows, of course, that things are moving much too quickly. I thought this evening would surely end with an idealistic kiss on my front stoop and the promise of a second date.   
  


Never in my wildest imagination did I envision this scene of grinding, groping recklessness that we’ve found ourselves in. But I couldn’t give a rat’s arse.   
  


I’m tired of thinking and want only to feel. And right now I feel alive and needed and …well, _cherished._ Which seems almost comical given the state of affairs at the moment.   
  


When he breaks our kiss and burrows his face into my neck, I hear him mutter something incoherent. His breathing is laboured and he continues to rock with me, rhythmically, until the need in me is so great I could generate energy with it.   
  


I can feel his hands tightening on my hips and I’m lost to what’s happening between us.   
  


Until I feel him still me. And he pulls back to look me in the eyes, breathless and with the most pained expression.   
  


“Hermione? We have to stop.”  
  


“Sorry?” I almost feel like I must have heard him incorrectly. _Stop?_  
  


“Hermione.” He raises his face up to mine. Close to mine. “I just mean we have to stop before …well, before we _can’t_ …” His expression is apologetic, which immediately makes me embarrassed.   
  


What have I done? Did I force this on him? This is our _first_ date. _Oh God._ What he must think of me…  
  


I can’t bear to hear him say anything else, so I just slide off of his lap, without much grace I’m afraid.  
  


He hasn’t really moved yet, and he’s looking at me rather expectantly. I realize it’s because I haven’t said anything.   
  


“I’m sorry?” I try. Is that the appropriate thing to say?  
  


“No! Hermione, don’t be sorry. I’m not. It’s just fast, yeah? I think we should slow it down a bit.” He looks so earnest and falsely reassuring, like someone who’s been sent to tell me I didn’t win first place but my work was ‘really impressive.’  
  


I’m so humiliated, but pride, as always, bolsters me as I make small talk. _Yes, I agree, Gus. Let’s not get carried away. We should take things more slowly._ Honestly, I’m not really sure what’s coming out of my mouth.   
  


What I _do_ know is that when he finally gathers his cloak and gives me a chaste peck on the lips as he heads out my door, I feel like I’ve chased away my best prospect with my inability to reign in my desperation.  
  


And I can’t wait to climb into my bed and hide from the understanding of it.   
  


~~0~~  
  


_KNOCK! KNOCK!_   
  


Sunlight streams in through the shades I forgot to pull last night, and it takes a moment before the memory of the evening comes crashing back into my consciousness, shaming me before I’m even out of bed.  
  


_KNOCK! KNOCK!_   
  


Who could possibly be at my door at 7:45 a.m. on a Sunday morning? If Ginny is popping in here unannounced after a night shift, I’m going to hex her. Grabbing my dressing gown, I amble toward the door and open it.   
  


Standing there, bakery box in hand and looking for all the world like he hasn’t slept, is Gus. Before I can even register his presence, he speaks.   
  


“I’m sorry. I was an idiot.”  



	4. Chapter 4

_KNOCK! KNOCK!_

__Sunlight streams in through the shades I forgot to pull last night, and it takes a moment before the memory of the evening comes crashing back into my consciousness, shaming me before I’m even out of bed.

_KNOCK! KNOCK!_

Who could possibly be at my door at 7:45 a.m. on a Sunday morning? If Ginny is popping in here unannounced after a night shift, I’m going to hex her. Grabbing my dressing gown, I amble toward the door and open it.

Standing there, bakery box in hand and looking for all the world like he hasn’t slept, is Gus. Before I can even register his presence, he speaks.

“I’m sorry. I was an idiot.”

Could I possibly be more embarrassed? I drive the poor bloke away with my neediness and _he’s_ the one apologizing. Silently, I gesture for him to enter and close the door behind him.

My sleepy brain finally catches up to the rest of me and I find some words, however inadequate. “Please don’t apologize, Gus. I should be apologizing to you--”

“No! It was my fault. I must have been crazy to leave here. Before I even got back to my flat, I was already kicking myself. If I made you feel for one second that I didn't want you, I'm so sorry, Hermione.”

“Gus, I got carried away last night.” I’m finding it difficult to meet his eyes, which is illogical, considering what transpired between us only a few hours ago. “I just felt really…relaxed…and I wasn’t thinking--”

He looks a bit disappointed, but is nodding. “Yeah, that’s what I thought - that if you slowed down you’d change your mind. I was worried that you’d be sorry.”

_What?_ I didn’t drive him away, he was only giving me an out. Without hesitation, I tell him I don’t need an out. “But I’m not. Sorry.”

Yet again, I’ve caused those eyebrows to get lost in his fringe. Adorable, that. But I’m certain he’s not sure what to make of me.

“Things were moving fast, for sure,” I go on. “But I don’t regret anything, if that’s what you meant.”

“I had doubts, yeah. But I’m glad I was wrong. Maybe it just threw me because it wasn't how I'd imagined it happening. And _believe_ me, I've imagined it plenty.”

“Gus!” I admonish him. But I'm smiling. Can’t help it.

He lets out a big sigh now, finally able to relax, and holds out the box to me. “So, we’ll try again, yeah?” he asks. “And maybe take it more slowly this time?”

But it’s all pretense now. We want each other, and we both know it. The heat between us last night was like a vaguely remembered potions assignment. I take the box and set it behind me on the table, without turning from him.

The impending nature of what we both know will happen makes me uncharacteristically smug. Okay, maybe characteristically smug. But about something new this time.

Coyly, I smile at him in a way that I hope doesn't look as teasing as it feels. “What's your definition of slowly?”

He grabs me and kisses me in a way that I'd never thought Gus capable.

Now _this_ is what I'd hoped for last night. What I've been _longing for_ for ages. Someone who wants me and is not afraid to show it. It’s an awakening, to be sure. He makes me…feel things.

I’ve half a mind to lead him back to the settee…or better yet, the bedroom. But I think better of it, instead pulling back ever so slightly to gauge his reaction. For some reason though my eyes remain shut. Nose to nose, I feel him exhale and then pull me back against him comfortably.

“Let’s have some scones before _you_ get carried away again,” he says into my hair. I can’t help but chuckle as I nod and head toward the kitchen to put on the kettle.

A few minutes later we’re sitting in my parlour breakfasting and chatting about everything and nothing. I find it remarkably comfortable to be sitting here with him, despite my still being in my dressing gown with my bare feet tucked under me, and my hair…well, I haven’t even dared to look in a mirror yet.

He’s been telling me about his sister’s continuing wedding plans, and how he has, thus far, evaded both his mother’s and sister’s attempts to be drawn into the rumpus. To act as mediator between the two anxious women.

“I told them to leave me out of it. Like coming between two lions, that,” he complains, though his affection for his family shows clearly through his grumbling. And it’s contagious; I’m delighted to be to be privy to all the details of his personal life I’ve not known before now.

Given the reason’s he returned here this morning, though, I feel like I need to steer the topic of conversation back to last night. Make sure we’re... _in sync._

“Gus, thank you again for having a level head last night,” I manage to say, but not without feeling the telltale heat of embarrassment rise in my cheeks.

He shrugs off my gratitude and makes to speak, but I stop him.

“No, really,” I continue. “I was…no, _I am_ – very attracted to you and I wanted to…”

_Hell, this is awkward, Hermione._ Out with it, then.

“I came awfully close, Gus, and well, it would have been the first time I’d ever had an…that _it_ had ever happened to me. Well, at least the first time with someone else in the room,” I finish sheepishly.

_Oh, no, I’ve scared him off with that bit of information._ I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable with my frankness, but he definitely looks like he’s at a loss for words.

“I find that hard to believe, Hermione.”

“Me too! I mean, given the option I certainly would have like to have tried it before now.” He’s smiling with me. But not _at_ me.

“The option?” he asks.

“Yes, you know, the opportunity. It’s the same with sex. I mean… the reason I haven’t had sex isn’t because I’ve been holding back in that department. I just haven’t dated anyone who I’ve been compelled to sleep with. I don’t really have any reservations about it.”

“Reservations?” He looks interested, and it’s not difficult to imagine why, I suppose.

“Well, my idea has always been that sex is a physical exchange, and that as long as it’s consensual and happens with someone whom you can trust, it needn’t only occur within the confines of marriage, or even love.”

This is true. I’ve always thought of sex and love as two separate things. But maybe, if one was lucky enough, those two experiences crossed paths to create something spectacular. I assume.

“Er, Hermione, do you find it rather odd that we’re discussing this subject as if we’re comparing the benefits of murtlap essence over grape root oil?”

When my laughter spills out in a decidedly unladylike manner, it feels good and right and freeing.

“Yes, it is rather, isn’t it? But I guess it’s the way we always are with each other. Or, _have_ been with each other, I mean.”

“Well, thanks for being open with me?” This comes out of his mouth as part question. I think maybe I _did_ say too much. And he’s trying to be reassuring, which is very sweet.

I consider him for a minute, and a thought occurs to me. “Listen, Gus. Do you have plans tomorrow night?”

“None, why?”

“Well, please feel free to decline if you feel uncomfortable in any way, but there’s this thing I need to attend.”

“Ooh, a _thing._ My favorite,” he says. _Cheeky, he is._ A side of him to which I’m still becoming accustomed.

“A dinner party,” I amend, “at Wildsmith’s, downtown. Anyway, I’d love it if you’d join me. I’m usually the only one without a date on these occasions.”

He slides a bit toward me and places a hand on my cheek. “Again, I find it hard to imagine why that would be the case. But yes, I’d love to join you.”

~

As Gus and I approach the restaurant, I wonder vaguely what my friends will think of my bringing him. Strange, I hadn’t considered that before now. But they rarely see me with a date, so their reaction should be interesting.

The host leads us to a small private room upstairs, which Harry and Ginny have presumably reserved. Stepping through the doorway, Ron is the first person I see, standing over near the window, looking down at the street below.

I haven’t seen him in couple of weeks. He looks great.

It’s like he feel the weight of my stare, because before we have a chance to make our presence known, he pulls his attention away from what he’s watching to meet my eyes directly. And then he offers up that warm, generous, slightly lopsided smile that is uniquely his.

Before I know it, Gus is leading us over to him, and Ron turns his attention to him. “Gus,” he says, extending a hand. “Glad you could join us. Hermione didn’t tell us she was bringing a friend.”

I’m fairly certain that his choice of the word _friend_ was not intentional, but still it feels awkward, and I hope Gus doesn’t think anything of it.

Next he leans down slightly and kisses my forehead. “Heya,” he says quietly. “Been too long. We never see you anymore.”

“I know, Ron, I’m sorry. I’ve been hearing that from my parents as well. I’ve been putting in long hours at the hospital.”

“We’ve got to break her of that habit,” Gus says jovially, placing his arm around my waist, which Ron notices, realizing finally that Gus is here as my date. He’s definitely surprised and something else I can’t quite place. Confused? Perhaps he just didn’t see me taking up with a coworker. I didn’t see it coming myself, when it comes to that.

I don’t have time to reflect on it for long, though, because just then Harry and Ginny come in, accompanied by a pretty witch with long dark hair who immediately approaches us and occupies the piece of carpet next to Ron.

“Hi,” she says, to him. She doesn’t kiss him, or embrace him, or say anything else, but they glance they exchange is more than enough to establish her as his date.

“Gus, Hermione,” Ron says, “I’d like you to meet Wendy.”

_Wendy._

Gus, of course, jumps right in, leaving me behind in my stupor. “Hello, Wendy,” he says, shaking her hand warmly. “Pleasure to meet you.” I’m relieved at not having to introduce him.

Would I choose _friend_? Coworker? Boyfriend? All are technically accurate, yet none seems appropriate.

“And you, Gus,” she says, before turning her attention to me. “Hermione,” she begins, “I’m glad to finally meet you. I feel like I already know you; Ron talks about you all the time.”

_All the time._ She’s not just a date. They’re seeing each other.

“ _Does_ he now?” I say, trying to inject humour where I feel none at the moment. “All compliments and praise I’m sure,” I say, looking up at him in a teasing way.

The corner of his mouth turns up and he takes the bait. “ _Mostly_ good things, although there was that time--”

“Alright, alright,” I finish, giving him a playful jab in the arm. “Let’s get some drinks.”

We make our hellos to Harry and Ginny, and before long we take our seats at a small table, the only one in the room. This was designed to be an intimate gathering. Harry and Ginny have something up their sleeves, and it’s not too difficult to imagine what it is.

In the past, I’ve made it a habit of finding every flaw possible in Ron’s dates. More often than not, it’s been a less than challenging pursuit.

This one, however…well, not only can I not find anything terribly wrong with her, I’m finding it rather difficult not to like her. For starters, she’s smart. Works at the Ministry, she said. Maybe something in International Magical Cooperation? I actually missed it the first time around, so taken was I with her appearance.

She’s beautiful. Her hair is long and dark, almost black, and her skin is fair. So fair, that her already striking green eyes are even more pronounced. There’s something about her though that is so natural. She doesn’t seem very bothered by her appearance. It’s plain that’s she wearing no makeup, and her hair is simple and straight. She’s wearing an uncomplicated blue dress and a cardigan. It’s neat, and crisp, but not flashy.

I listen as she talks eagerly of Quidditch with the boys and Ginny. Apparently her family owns a private box at the Canons’ home pitch.

“I hope you don’t think us ostentatious,” she’s quick to amend, “it’s been in the family for ages, since before the Cannons were such a hot commodity. We’re no fair-weather fans.”

It all sounds achingly familiar.

For his part, Ron seems a bit quiet tonight. I’ve been stealing little looks at him but I can’t riddle him out.

Right now, I find myself absently watching his hands. Those long, pale fingers I know so well. I’ve studied him over the years as meticulously as I would any other subject that interests me. I know before he does what he’ll do next. First, he’ll finger the edge of his napkin absently, perhaps a couple of times before he picks it up and put it in his lap. I watch as he lifts it up and unfolds it. Corner to corner, he’ll fold it, not straight edge to straight edge.

Sure enough, I see him fold the fabric into a triangle and let it fall the short distance to his lap as our food is delivered to us.

_Stop it. Stop._ It’s got to stop, Hermione. Old habits die hard.

When I was a child of maybe 8 or 9, there was an object I coveted with more obsessiveness than I’d ever had for anything prior. It was a beautiful carousel, with ornate inlaid gold, that sat in the window of a jeweler’s we used to pass quite often on the way to my parents’ office. Each magnificent horse was carved out of wood and hand painted with painstaking detail. I was hypnotized by it.

“It’s not useful, Hermione,” my parents told me. “It’s beautiful, but you’ll tire of it.”

I memorized it every time we saw it. I knew every line, every detail. Each carved groove in the wood.

Despite the discouragement of my parents, I was determined to have it. I finally saved all my Christmas and birthday money and purchased it. And for days I sat staring at it, immersed in its beauty. But soon the novelty wore off and it sat collecting dust.

Soon, I began not to notice it anymore. And then, as more time passed, it came to be in my way. It was taking up valuable space on my shelf, space I sorely needed for a book collection that was growing more and more rapidly.

Eventually I placed the carousel carefully in a large carton and stored it away in the box room.

Ron was right, really. Although there had always been undeniable tension between us, where would it really ever lead us if we were to act on it? Once we’d quenched our curiosity, we’d be a poor match. It wouldn’t be, as he put it, _enough._

I’ve harbored this obsession for him for so long that I don’t even know if I was ever in love with him, or just in love with the idea of loving him. Watching him tonight with this lovely girl, who is undeniably perfect for him…

_It’s time to let go._

Harry and Ginny make the announcement we all know is coming, and so we pretend to be surprised, asking them about their plans, which include a small wedding this winter in the presence of family and friends.

Later, I’m the one standing by the window looking down, feeling strangely melancholy. We’re growing up.

Ron and Gus approach me, together. It’s odd to see them standing side by side, but not awkward.

“We thought we’d come check on you. You’re awfully quiet over here,” says Ron.

I smile up at them both. “I’m fine. Just tired. Actually thinking about how much work I have waiting for me in the morning.” It’s a lie, but it’s not untrue in itself.

I see them exchange a look and possibly an eyeroll before Gus says to me, “I’ll go gather our cloaks, okay?” I nod and he is off, leaving me alone with Ron.

“I’m really happy for you and Gus, Hermione.” Somehow not what I was expecting to say.

“Thanks, Ron,” I say. “You like him?”

“Yeah, he’s perfect for you. I _never_ thought I’d meet a bloke who deserved you, but Gus is really great. Successful… and clever, and he’s obviously mad about you. It’s everything you deserve Hermione.”

“Thanks, Ron.” I say, not really knowing what else to say and unlikely able to get the words out even if I knew what they should be.

And so this is how it ends. Officially.

That old familiar daydream, one of the last remaining pieces of a childhood version of myself.

Looking into Ron’s beautiful face, I feel nostalgia but not as much sorrow as I thought I might feel if I were to someday know for sure it would never happen. I don’t want to lose him from my life, that much is certain.

If we are destined to be friends, if that is the role he will always play in my life, how can I think that unlucky?

And just as I’m thinking this, Gus returns with our cloaks. I take my cloak, and then take his hand, and prepare myself for a new chapter.

~

“I trust you, Gus.” I say, hoping he’ll infer my meaning from these few words.

I’ve invited him to come home with me. Again.

And bypassed my parlour entirely to lead him into my bedroom, where no man has ever been.

But I’m not concerned with what he thinks or whether it’s the “proper thing to do.” I trust him without question and he is a good man, and he’s beautiful, and on this night--it’s enough.

He kisses me in a way that reflects the cumulative tension of the last couple of days. I kiss him back with equal fervor, and although I’m not entirely sure when it happens, soon he’s lying over me, grasping my hips in way that is at once forceful and reverent. The weight of his strong frame feels heavenly bearing down on mine, and I relish the way we are in contact from head to toe. I find myself trying to touch as much of his body as I can.

I need to feel more of him, and I need to map this uncharted new territory. _For myself._

I break our kiss and smile up at him. “I’m all in, Gus,” I whisper.

“Are you sure?” he asks, raising himself up slightly.

I smirk and kiss him quickly. “I thought we were done with the second-guessing?”

He laughs, and I feel the tension leave his body. When again his lips meet mine, the intensity makes my heart race like a freight train. I feel his hands move between our bodies as he begins to peel away my shirt, and then slides it down over my shoulders and

drops it onto the floor.

It becomes a feast for my senses: kisses peppered against my collarbone, kisses imparted between my breasts, and the tip of his tongue gently prodding, pushing aside the edge of my bra. When he slides his hands down, down to the hem of my skirt and under, I lift my hips to allow him to slip it off; he tosses it down to the floor on top of my shirt.

He lowers himself to me again, and it’s plain to see he’s enjoying the sensation of our bare skin touching as much as I am. I kiss his warm neck and take time to savour the sound of the sigh that follows before I cover his mouth with mine. I am anxious to touch him as well, so I tentatively move my hand between us and cup him. He moans into my mouth and deepens our kiss.

Keeping my eagerness in check, I gently stroke and caress until I feel the urgency in him. He strokes--no, kneads--the softest parts of my hips, my arse, all the while moving his lips down my neck, nipping and kissing along the way. He places one chaste kiss on the swell of my breast and then looks up at me, longingly, before slowly lowering the strap of my bra.

“Just take it off,” I say, feeling my back arch of it own accord.

He reaches behind me and makes short work of the clasp, I feel the tension of the elastic abate and then watch him slowly remove the relatively small piece of silk and lace from my body. I expect him to palm my breast, but he surprises me by instead tracing two fingers just over the bare nipple. The sensation is like nothing I’ve felt before, and this time the groan comes from me. When his mouth follows his hand, I feel as though I might come out of my skin entirely.

Despite the fleeting notion that I wouldn’t mind allowing him to continue the endeavor for another hour or two, the rest of my body is more aroused than it has ever been and has begun an actual campaign for equal attention. I am thankful when I feel him dispense of my knickers.

At some point, I have enough presence of mind to slide his shorts down, and the feeling of his warm smooth skin against mine is so much better than I could have ever anticipated.

He’s still holding his body carefully above my own, and I silently give him permission to come closer by reaching my hands around him and exploring the muscles of his back, his arse, unconsciously pulling him down against me. I shift my legs slightly and hear his sharp intake of breath as our bodies come into contact.

I’m ready for this; I don’t want to wait any longer.

I break our kiss and dip my head to make eye contact with him, nodding my encouragement for him to continue. He smiles and takes one last glance down my body before nudging my legs further apart with his knee.

He takes my hand and brings it down to cover him so that I might direct the situation to my liking. I like the feeling of control, experimenting with the different angles as I and gently guide his body to where mine is waiting.

I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting, but it’s powerful, the stretching and pulling. I gasp at the sensation and bury my head in his neck. Still, it’s not as painful as I may have expected, had I given it more thought. When I widen my legs and feel him move further inside me the pain is not nearly as prominent as the heavenly friction. I find purchase along the concave part of his lower back and raise my hips to heighten the sensation.

_It’s perfect._

Slowly, he begins to move his hips in time with mine and peppers my neck, face, breasts with kisses once more. I can feel his breath caressing my temple and I look up at him. His soft green eyes are wide and full of affection, and I hope he sees the same thing when he looks back into my face.

Our pace is gradually changing and again I feel the arch of my hip as they reach for his. My name is spilling from his lips over and over, and I begin to feel a familiar tightness in my body. I try to hold on as long as I can, a war waging inside me--the urge to prolong this against the need for completion. Still, I am surprised when I hear myself calling his name as well, and I feel the lightning fan out throughout my body, leaving a delicious pulsing in its wake. This was what he was waiting for, and he speeds his pace until he lets out a muffled groan and collapses on top of me, pressing his nose and chin into my neck.

After a few moments, I feel him roll away from me and I am instantly sorry for the loss of contact. But he reaches back with one hand to find one of my own and entangles our fingers tightly. The simple gesture is somehow quite intimate.

The mattress compresses a bit under his weight when I hear him roll onto his side to face me, and I raise my chin up to meet his eyes, expecting him to say something to punctuate what we’ve just done.

Instead, he just kisses me. Gently, almost chaste. One peck on the lips, accompanied by the nicest sigh I’ve ever heard. His lips are warm and firm, and he tastes of new beginnings.


	5. Chapter 5

_This is the last time I will conduct this bloody experiment_ , I tell myself as I carefully affix the sealing wax to the tops of the vials so that no air will escape during the heating process. _One more time for the control group and I'll have recorded all the data I need._

Using my wand, I adjust the flame to the right temperature, and watch the gauge as the oxygen reading stabilizes. As predicted, the oxygen depletion varies with the size of the vial. As I make my notes, I swell with the pride of another successful project nearly completed. All I need to do is prepare the rest of the data set, let them sit overnight and record the final readings tomorrow morning. 

I've just filled the remaining tall glass vials with their respective potions when I sense him hovering behind me. He won't touch me until he knows I've completed my task. Much as he loves to surprise me, he can't turn off his concern for the work we're doing. 

Adorable, that.  
  
As it happens, he needn't worry so much. I've become so accustomed to his stealing a touch or a kiss at work that I don't even jump anymore. The two assistants who are assigned to work in this lab with us only work until lunchtime on Thursdays, and have already gone for the day. I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd come near. 

And though I'd never let on, I've been waiting.  
  
True to form, just as I've laid down the instruments, I feel his large warm hands slide around my waist and the softness of his breath on the back of my neck. I smile, but only on the inside.   
  
"We're at _work_ , Gus," I admonish halfheartedly, continuing my project with deliberate motions. But he doesn't make to move away. I'm not cross with him; he'd know it if I were.   
  
Truth be told, I secretly enjoy it. While my work ethic tells me that it's unprofessional and maybe even irresponsible, I'd be a liar if I said I didn't thrill to the meaningful looks and sneaky touches. It adds a bit of mystery and excitement to what we're doing. Whatever it is we're doing. I'm enjoying figuring that out, too.   
  
Besides, we're both much too pragmatic to get caught. And it's just a kiss here and there; a hug that lingers a bit long. It's not like we're shagging or anything. 

_Well, not at work anyway._ I'm sure I must redden at the images that thought brings to mind. 

Now he's barely brushing his lips against my shoulder. Not kissing. Just _there_. It's nice, but still I don't turn. Maybe I'm teasing him; maybe I don't trust myself to behave. 

It's only been a month. A month that we've been dating. A month that we've been intimate. Yet the change in me is marked. Gus has helped me see a new side of myself. Or perhaps not _new_ , as it's surely always been there. 

It was just ... _dormant_. 

And blimey, has it awakened. As I grapple with the urge to turn and meet him in a full-on snog, workplace decorum be damned, I start at the sound of the door opening at the far end of the room. 

"Is anyone here?" comes a voice. A familiar voice.  
_  
_Ron's__ voice. 

_What the hell is he doing here?_

Gus immediately pulls away from me as Ron fully enters the room, which only serves to exaggerate his proximity to me. Confirming its guilty nature rather than concealing it.

"Do you two get _any_ work done here anymore?" Ron teases. _Cheeky._

I choose not to answer, but instead try to cover my embarrassment by approaching him in earnest for a big hug. 

"Hey, you," he says into my hair. "How've you been?"

"I've been well. This is a surprise. What are you doing in this part of town?"

"Sorry for stopping by unannounced. I just finished a job nearby, so I thought maybe I'd be lucky enough to steal you for a bit? Late lunch, or early dinner... It's been an age since I've seen you."

It's true. I've seen little of Ron lately. Or Harry or Ginny, for that matter. It's not the first stretch of time where I've allowed it to happen, either. In the past, I've let the days slip by because of my immersion in work. Lately, though, I've been occupied by entirely different pursuits. Not that I've minded...

Inadvertently, I glance toward Gus, and then immediately reprimand myself for doing so. It feels as if I'm deferring to him, an unnatural and uncomfortable gesture for me. Still, we did have plans. 

He's quick to read me, though. "Go!" he says. "By all means, go." 

"Oh, if you had something--" Ron begins, only to be cut off again by Gus. 

"No, really. Nothing special. We were just going to grab something on the way home. We can do it anytime. I keep telling her she's neglecting her friends."

He turns back to me. "Really, Love, go on. I'll see you later."

"Alright," I say, turning my attention back up to the redhead on my right. "Lead the way, then."

~

Ten minutes later we're sitting at a corner table in the Penny Farthing, a small wizarding pub near the hospital. My nose is still numb from the bite of the frosty December afternoon. I wiggle my toes in my boots to get the blood moving as I watch Ron butter a slice of bread. 

Observing him nowadays is enlightening. He is so much less hurried than he was when we were younger, when he was always a bundle of nervous energy. I used to joke with Harry that Ron moved at two speeds: fast and stop. 

Now, though, he does things one at a time. First he speaks, then he listens. He does not fidget with hands or chew his lips or drum his fingers on the table. 

His focus, really, is incredible. I've heard it said about his work and I've seen it personally in the rest of his pursuits. And it seems to draw people near to him, hovering like moons around their planet. 

No sooner am I thinking this, as a matter of fact, when two young women approach our table, looking for all the world like they're about to burst into giggles at any moment. 

"Are you Ron Weasley?" says the first to arrive at his side. 

Not surprisingly, Ron is gracious, standing to shake her hand. "Yeah, I am. Have we met?" 

"See!" she screeches at her friend, loud enough for the whole pub to hear. "I _told_ you it was him." Girl Number Two rolls her eyes at having her skepticism exposed so openly.

Girl Number One ignores her, fixing her attention on Ron. "You fixed a bewitched stove for my Mum down in Swanley. About two months ago. Conjured ghouls kept springing out of it?"

"Oh, yeah... I remember that. She was a bit distraught. Took some time to calm her down." 

_I'll bet it did._

"That's _right_!!" she fairly squeals. "I can't believe you remember. She's been going on about it ever since: ‘Imagine, the famous Ron Weasley right here in my kitchen.' It's maddening."

Yes _. Maddening._

This has happened to Ron a few times before in my presence, so I'm quite certain it's happened more than a few times outside my presence. He and Harry have naturally been the object of some admiration since the last days of Voldemort, the whole hero thing playing its part and all. Doesn't happen as much to me. Maybe blokes aren't as interested in a battle-worn woman? 

At first Ron reveled in it, and then he complained about it, and now he just takes it in stride. Used to it, I suppose. 

Now he is standing quietly, grudgingly allowing the girl to go on about him to her friend. For a moment, I consider taking my leave, visiting the loo or something. Allowing him to indulge in the public flattery, enjoy the moment. 

But then, he politely takes his leave, and when I see him roll his eyes in the direction of Admirer Girl, I look at my lap in order to hide my disproportionately joyful smile. 

~

Toward the end of our meal, we're discussing the possibility of partaking in something from the sweet trolley when an owl swoops down onto the edge of the table and plops a somewhat mud-smeared scroll down next to Ron's forearm.

"Expecting something?" I inquire of him. 

He blows out a frustrated sigh and says, "Nope, which is what worries me. Unexpected owls almost always equal bad news." Grumpily Ron breaks open the deal and scans the short note. 

" _Damn_! It's my bloody night off." Ron crumples the parchment and tosses it to the center of the table, causing the startled bird to scrabble hastily across the table before flying off without a reward.

"Hermione, I am _so_ sorry. I'm going to have to cut this short. I've been called in. There's a situation down on Exmoor." He's already standing, tossing a few too many Galleons on the table in the absence of the bill.

"The National Park? What's happening?" 

"Well, it started out as an accidental fairy sighting by some Muggles, but then apparently some naiads got involved-"

"Naiads!" I spring to my feet. "There are naiads on Exmoor? Ron, can I come with you?" 

"You're joking?" He pauses to look at me quizzically. "You want to come all the way down to Exmoor with me in the freezing cold just to see a naiad?"

"Not _see_ one, Ron. But maybe...I was aware that we still had them in the country, but I didn't know their location was so definitively known. Did you know that a single strand of a naiad's hair can alleviate the pain of arthritis and some neurological conditions for up to _five_ years?" 

Ron says nothing. Just abandons buttoning his cloak and looks at me blankly. Then he scrubs his palms down his face, in that exasperated way he always does when he's about to try to talk me out of something. Emphasis on _try_.

"Hermione, naiads are dangerous. You can't just go plucking their hairs out. You could be killed."

"Oh, pish! Look who you're talking to, Ronald. Do you forget what we were doing with our spare time a few years back? Not just playing Snap, I can tell you that! You think I can't handle myself against a bloody naiad?"

He's prepared to argue it further, but I've already donned my cloak and I'm all but tapping my foot waiting for him. He knows it's useless. 

"Let's go," he says, resigned. "But do what I tell you and _don't_ get in the way."

Now that's more like it. It's all I can do to suppress the smile fighting its way out of the corners of my mouth. 

Then grabs my hand and pulls me into the men's toilet. 

"Ron!"

"Sorry, Hermione, but the rubbish bin is the Portkey."

_Oh._

Next thing I know he's got both of our hands on the bin and I feel the telltale tugging in my middle informing me that we're _en route_. I suppose Ron lands a few seconds before me, because before the ground comes into my view, I feel his hands around my waist struggling to guide my landing in the opposite direction of where my momentum is pushing me. He's pulling me rather roughly at that.

" _Ow_ , Ron!"

"Sorry," he grunts as I catch my breath, finally landing almost on top of him. "There's a huge boulder here. Practically broke my ankle. You'd think someone could conjure a decent Portkey." Now that I'm safely on two feet, he reaches down to rub his ankle, grimacing.

Just as I'm about to bend to check his injury, a battered van bearing an official emblem on its side appears from nowhere and rolls to a stop right next to us. A tall man wearing some type of uniform hops out and approaches us, asking Ron to identify himself. I assume him to be a Muggle park ranger or something until I hear Ron complaining to him about the shoddy Portkey. 

"Not my fault, mate. I'm just here to confirm your arrival then I'm off." He doesn't speak to me, or even look at me directly, but instead asks Ron, "Who's this?" 

"She's a friend," Ron says suggestively. "We were in the middle of something, if you get my meaning."

The ranger treats me to a very tactless glance up and down before he says, "Yeah, alright. She's your charge, though. I've got enough to deal with up here." Then he's back into the vehicle.

I take the opportunity to give Ron a jab in the ribs at his previous implication before he whispers in my ear, "Hermione, this area is highly restricted. Do you think he'll be less suspicious of a prominent researcher or some bird I'm shagging?"

I'm chagrined. Why didn't I think of that? 

There's not time to say anything more, until the ranger leaves us, presumably to address some other concern elsewhere in the park. Although he seems eager to dump the problem on Ron, I suspect his attitude is the result of feeling a bit emasculated at someone else being sent into in his territory. Typical. He's probably marked half the trees on Exmoor.

Before he goes, he leans out of the truck window and points us in the direction of a path heading into the wood to the north. "Straight through, not even a quarter mile. You'll see it." Then he tears off again in his van. 

"Thanks for the welcome," I mutter as the dust settles around us in what's left of the dusk.

Ron chuckles at me, and we start walking. Now that we're finally alone, he decides to brief me on the situation he's been called here to address.

"There are a lot of magical creatures living in this area, and since it's also highly used by Muggles, the Ministry keeps a couple of wizards from the Invisibility Task Force assigned here, like our friend Jones."

"Jones?"

"Bloke in the van."

"Ah, sure. _Jones_."

Ron continues, "Anyway, they keep the fairies Disillusioned, make sure protective wards are in place to keep Muggles from straying into certain areas. Like any place where Muggles and Wizards are together in high numbers, occasionally things get botched."

"I see." I'm the last person on the planet to endorse segregating Muggles and Wizards, but it does sound like quite the juggling act.

Ron goes on. "Slips are less frequent in winter, when there are fewer tourists in the area, but it seems a bunch of Muggle teenagers were out here last night--drinking... bonfire... you know, harmless stuff. Nearby, though, in a deserted summer chalet a young wizard couple was er...having their own party."

"Party?" I suppress a snort at his delicate wording, knowing full well what he's talking about. 

"Well, whatever you want to call it, it must have been pretty good, ‘cause they accidentally released enough magic to break the Disillusionment about three dozen fairies - who promptly started showing off for the Muggles."

"Wow." 

"Yeah, wow. Those kids must have thought they were _pissed_." I laugh with him at the idea.

"So Obliviators were called at that point, I'm guessing?" 

"Yeah. Except this trainee, Higgins, was out on the edge of the pond rounding up Muggles and was taken by water nymphs. Naiads." 

"Taken?"

"At this point, he's believed to be alive. Just changed into a water creature. The naiads must have taken a liking to him else they'd have drowned him straight away."

"So they tricked him?"

"Well that's their usual approach - enticement - but this bloke wasn't warned ahead of time they were there, so I think it's more likely that they just ambushed him."

I see now why this assignment is beyond the Obliviators. "You're here to change him back." 

He nods. "But how will you find him?" I ask, wondering how in the world you find someone who's been Transfigured and is underwater. At night.

"Good question. I'm guessing I'll need to make a deal with the naiads. Strike a bargain."

"What kind of bargain?" What sort of ransom would be of value to a water nymph?

He stops on the path and turns to look at me, suddenly quite serious. "Hermione, how much do you know about naiads?"

"Well, not much really. Mainly what I learned from mythology in Muggle schools before I left for Hogwarts - the classic stories: Melusine, Nomia... In fact, I never even knew they were real creatures while we were at Hogwarts."

"Really? How is _that_ possible?" 

"We never studied them!" I turn to him, indignant, and he's smirking. Teasing me. _Exasperating as ever._

" _Anyway_ ," I continue, resuming my journey along the path, "it wasn't until much later when I began to train with the Healers that I learned of their factual existence, and the healing properties of their locks. I know that they're reputed to be very cunning and selfish."

"And dangerous."

"Yes, Ron," I say with mock obedience. " _And dangerous_."

"It's no joke, Hermione. The precautions that are in place now have really brought the numbers down, but up until a few years ago the naiads were claiming a handful of lives annually. Just in this park alone. Muggles thought the drownings were accidental, ‘course."

"Seriously?" I never knew any of this, which is disconcerting.

Ron nods. "I've dealt with them a few times before, which is why they called me specifically I expect. Still, when we get there, just please do what I say for once."

"For once?" 

"Please Hermione. Just let me take the lead this time. This is my job, okay?"

He's right. I invited myself along; the least I can do is not bungle his assignment. Still, if I could just somehow get a few strands of hair I could do wonders, I'm sure I could...my mind is already forming theories on complementary ingredients. 

Finally, the path deposits us at a clearing alongside a small pond. There isn't much light left to see by, but the scene is still quite breathtaking, Before us lies a lovely, lily-covered pond, with its eerily still surface reflecting the full moon now hanging low in the sky. 

Ron strides directly to the edge of the water, bends down into a low squat, and draws his wand. Then, he slowly and deliberately immerses his other hand in the water, just up to his wrist. 

Before I can even speculate on what he's doing, let alone ask him, a pale hand breaks the surface and grabs his wrist, pulling him toward the pond. 

" _Impedimenta_!" grumbles a startled Ron, sending a blast that quickly extricates the hand from his wrist.

"Shite!" He stumbles back a bit, falling to his bum on the soft bank. "I thought I'd have to wait a bit. Summon them. But it's as if they're waiting here for us. Or for something."

Just then, the surface breaks again, this time gently, as several figures gracefully emerge from the murky water. The first thing I notice is their hair, which is not long like the merfolk, but closely cropped, wavy, and shining so stunningly that light seems to emanate from it. And they are ginger. All of them. 

Their exposed shoulders are intensely pale, giving the creatures a luminous glow against the inky twilight. As they rise further until they are above the water to their waists, their bare breasts and abdomens are the most exquisite examples of the female form I have ever seen. I feel as if I am looking at a work of art, a painting or a sculpture, rather than real beings. 

" _Beautiful_ ," I whisper. I can't help it. It's the first thing that occurs to me. I take a few steps forward to get a closer look.

"Stay back, Hermione," Ron warns, scrambling to his feet and pulling me a safe distance back from the water's edge. "They're like sirens. They can entrance you into doing their will."

"Have you come to join us?" comes the voice of one of the naiads in the front. The cadence of her voice is like a song, rendering her as pleasurable to hear as she is to observe. 

At first I think she is addressing me, but the way she looks at Ron quickly dispels my assumption. She is clearly speaking to him. He leaves me and approaches the water's edge once more. This excites them, and they push and shove each other in their attempts to be the closest to him.

"Where is the man you took last night?" he asks them plainly. 

The leader pouts when she speaks again. "He's blissful now, away from your lonely, dry world. You needn't worry for him. Why not join him instead?"

"No thanks. I'd rather you just deliver him back to us so we can be on our way."

The naiad lets loose a laugh that reverberates through me, more of a warm vibration than an actual sound. Against my will, I move imperceptibly forward. 

Again, Ron threads an arm around my waist and moves me back to the treeline. "Please, Hermione, resist it. It's like an Imperious curse." And with that, he sets me down gently on a small boulder.

"Please, Love, stay here. Don't move," he whispers, brushing a lock back from my face. "You're losing your focus."

Numbly, I turn my gaze from the naiads to his face, only half hearing what's he saying to me. Then I hear another one of the nymphs call out behind him. "Look at you, mortal man. Acting the fool. Wasting yourself on her. She cannot please you as we can." 

He turns now, back to the group of them. "Really? Tell me, then. What can you do for me that she can't?"

"We know how to pleasure a man in ways that no mere mortal can. You'll know ecstasy such as you've never known." Another naiad swims gracefully to her side and they begin to caress each other's hair, faces, breasts.

"I'm intrigued," says Ron, approaching the water once again. "Tell me more. Maybe I'll consider it." 

The naiad continues, "Imagine it, man of the russet crown. All of our mouths on your body at once. No part of you unattended to. Tongues sliding, pulling. Secret places explored. You can choose to enter us however you desire to do so. Unlike yours, _our_ world has no rules you can't bend to suit your secret wishes."

"I can think of lots of rules I'd like to break with the lot of you," says Ron, smiling at the two nymphs who are now being joined by some of the others in an erotic tangle of mouths and limbs. He's awfully close to the water now, and despite my befuddled state, it makes me rather nervous. 

"I like what I see so far," he says.

"Of course you do," hums the naiad who spoke to us first, leaving the group and moving close to the water's edge. 

Closer to Ron. _What is he doing?_

Entranced, he bends down close in order to hear her sigh, "Come join us mortal. Leave her behind. We'll show you love and pleasure she never will."

"I doubt it," Ron says bitterly, as he deftly grabs her by the elbow and heaves with all his might, plucking her from the pond and depositing her on the muddy bank. 

And then she is writhing on the ground, screeching and wailing in a voice that is entirely different from the siren song she was speaking in moments ago. 

Ron throws a quick _Incarcerous_ on her and turns back to the others. "Bring me the man you took from this bank last night and I'll return her to you." 

"She cannot exist outside the water!" screams another naiad. 

"Do as I ask and she will be unharmed. She has a very short time before her immortality is compromised. After that she will be removed from this place and imprisoned, which will likely result in her destruction." 

The naiads say no more, but one after another they dive under the surface of the water, leaving Ron and I to wait, alone with the bound nymph on the ground. She is still screaming and wailing with all her capacity. 

Now that the others have gone, I can think much more clearly. Although I am exhausted, as if emerging from a particularly heavy sleep. The deafening naiad combined with my sluggishness is giving me a headache.

" _Silencio_ ," I mumble, aiming my wand in her general direction. The noise is instantly replaced by silence of the evening, with the occasional low moaning of the winter wind across the pond.

"Thanks," says Ron, plopping himself down next to me. 

"How do you know they'll bring him?"

"Oh, they'll bring him. Naiads are selfish creatures. They couldn't care less about their sister, except that her demise would mean dark magic for the whole colony."

He must be knackered, too. Which reminds me...

"Ron, why weren't you affected by them the same way I was? How did you keep your focus? I couldn't think straight." 

Ron considers me for a moment, and looks as if he's deciding what to say. Choosing his words carefully for some reason. Finally, he says, "I had special training. Through the Department."

That would make perfect sense, except for the way it took him so long to answer the question. And the way he looks... _dodgy_ , actually. After all this time, I can still read him like a book. And there's more he's not saying about why he is here, on his night off, to deal with these creatures, in someone else's place.

I open my mouth to ask another question. 

"Hey, let's get that hair," Ron says.

"Hair?"

"From the naiad. You know, it's why you're here?"

"Oh. Alright then." I'd forgotten about the hair. Still feeling stiff, I accept Ron's hand and allow him to pull me to my feet. 

~

Seems Ron was right about the nymphs. We've no sooner collected the hair sample from the unwilling naiad when they return Higgins--or rather, an amphibian version of him--by pushing him out of the water and up onto the soft bank. He struggles against them the whole time. Perhaps it was true that he was thoroughly enjoying himself down there.

Nonetheless, Ron goes ahead and performs some transfiguration spells, and some healing charms I'm well familiar with, before removing his own cloak and covering the naked and confused young Obliviator. He stops protesting, but doesn't seem to have energy for much more, so Ron levitates him back along the path and out to the road where we came in.

There are two wizards from Ron's Department waiting for us there, and Ron explains the situation to them and hands over Higgins. 

After they Disapparate, Ron and I find ourselves standing there once again in the cold and the dark. I shiver, realizing for the first time since we've been here just how cold I am. 

"You must be freezing," I say to Ron, who's standing there without the benefit of his cloak. I rub my hands up and down his arms in a feeble effort to warm him. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," he says, pulling me into his arms for a hug. "Listen, I reckon you're probably sick of me by now, but it's early still. Just gone a quarter past eight. Fancy a quick Butterbeer to warm up?"

"Sure, how about the place near my flat? But let's make it something stronger than Butterbeer - I'm freezing." Ron laughs at me wholeheartedly and follows my Apparition trail to the Hope and Anchor, a small Muggle restaurant and pub just down the road from where I live.

It's not very crowded, as it's still awhile before the live music starts downstairs, so we quickly find a couple of stools at the end of the bar and order pints of lager. 

"So, Ron," I venture. "We haven't had a moment alone since Harry and Ginny made the big leap. What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think it's ace, ‘course."

I raise one eyebrow at him. 

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine, Hermione. I'm chuffed now but I'll own up to being caught off guard a bit. I mean, _married_? I can't even imagine getting married at this point."

"I can see that." I tease.

"Cheers. But I'm not just talking about being on the pull...I just mean, I feel like we're fairly young. Do you think about it?"

I consider this for a moment. "I don't know. Not really. I'm certainly not in a hurry, if that's what you mean. But I suppose with Harry and Ginny, there was no point in waiting. They've been in love since we were kids."

"Do you think that's possible?"

"What's that?"

"That they were in love even way back then. Or that _anyone_ can really fall in love so young?"

"Sure, I suppose so." I say this, but I'm not sure at all. Sometimes I feel like I barely remember who I was then. But other times, I feel like I'm the same naïve girl. 

"Look at your parents," I suggest. "It can happen."

"I don't know...I guess it just seems a bit like a fairytale maybe."

"Well, _yes_ ,Ron _._ Precisely! I suppose that's why people run headlong toward it when they're lucky enough to stumble upon it." My words sound sharp all of a sudden and, embarrassed, I mess about with my glass.

The tide of this conversation has somehow turned so that I'm on the defensive, although I'm unsure of who or what I feel the need to defend or justify. Regardless, my tone is unmistakable, even to me.

Annoyance sets in, heedless of rational thought, and I'm flustered with myself for letting this topic strike a nerve with me. He's right, after all. What can I really say with any authority on this subject? Did I love him all those years ago? Perhaps I just called it love in the absence of another name. 

_And why does it even matter?_ I'm in a relationship now. One involving _mutual_ affection. This discussion should be irrelevant. 

When I look up at him, he looks as perplexed as I feel, but he clearly senses my ire. Immediately I'm concerned that the motivation behind my reaction might be completely transparent.

Then he says, "Sorry, Hermione. I was just wondering out loud. I didn't mean to sound as if I doubted them or anything."

Oh, _God._ This whole time he thought I was defending Harry and Ginny's decision. Well, so much for my being transparent. I don't know whether to feel indignant or embarrassed at his assumption. 

"Ron, it's fine. I don't know who I am to even comment on the matter."

He fairly snorts into his lager. "Surely you must know more about it than I do. You and Gus..." he trails off as soon as he realizes what he was about to ask and reddens slightly.

Is he fishing? 

"Oh!" is the first thing out of my mouth. Right, _Gus_. "Ron, I don't know...I mean to say...I'm not sure that's..." I'm not sure what it is I'm trying to say. Or whether it's something I want to share with Ron, of all people. 

But I take a deep breath and finish anyway. "Gus is wonderful to me. Truly. But, love...I'm not sure I'd recognize it if it bit me in the nose." I _really_ need another pint.

"Really?" says Ron, seemingly surprised. 

And strangely... _satisfied_. 

"Is it that surprising? What about you, Ron Weasley? Have _you_ ever been in love?" I have my suspicions but something in me needs to hear him say it. _Go on, admit it. She's fairly perfect._

I was trying very carefully to ask in a teasing tone but he looks rather somber nonetheless, fingering his glass absently as he lifts his eyes to mine. "I reckon I have, yeah. I think so."

And despite my peace with my decision to move on, in this moment, I believe Wendy to be the luckiest witch in the world. The envy rises to the surface and shames me; I'm not entitled to it. She's wonderful, and he deserves her.

He can't, however, seem to look me in the eye again, which I can't abide. I can't possibly bear having him feel badly for me that he's in love and I'm not, so I change the subject immediately, back to some indiscriminate story from long ago about Harry mooning over Ginny. We have an affectionate laugh at Harry's expense, and it does the trick. We talk of lighter, easier things, laughing more and seeming more like ourselves.

Three pints later, we seem to be having quite a few laughs, at everyone's expense, even our own. It feels so good and right to laugh so hard and so well, and I'm completely unaware of the time until I see Ron glance at his watch.

Which is when I realize with a little stab that I don't want to go home. _Why don't I want to go home?_

"Bugger, it's really getting late," he says reluctantly. "You have to work tomorrow." 

I'd like to disagree, suggest another drink, but he's right. It's already much later than I thought. I've got lab results waiting for me in the morning. If I'm late, I stand to lose a month's worth of work. 

Nodding at him, I rise from the stool. He's already retrieved my cloak from the oak post on the wall next to us, and is holding it for me to slip under. We walk the little way to my flat in silence, too exhausted and too cold to chat anymore. 

"Well, g'night then," he says. "Thanks for all your help with the naiads, and thanks for the catch-up, too. Feels like old times, yeah?"

_Too right it does._

As I've needed to since I was about fourteen, I raise myself up on my toes to manage to reach him, and he pulls me into a hug that I enjoy far more than I probably should. _What has got into me tonight?_ Nostalgia, perhaps. 

"Thanks for an interesting evening, Ron," I mumble into his shoulder. "I had so much fun tonight. I promise not to be such a stranger."

I feel his sigh more than hear it as he releases me from the hug. He gives me a sad sort of smile and says, "If only you were a stranger, Hermione."

Then he raises one hand in a half wave, and before I have to respond, he's already Disapparated.

 


	6. Chapter 6

  
Author's notes: _This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend spidergirl, who is going through a tough time right now, and has been an amazing fan of this story and an even more amazing friend to me. And also to vivisco (Linda) for the unbelievable trailer that she made for this fic (best review I’ve ever received - thank you!)_  


* * *

 

Chapter six: Christmas

"It's snowing," he whispers into my ear. He is endearing. He's actually excited about the first snow. 

"You're awake?" I mumble. 

"You're not?" 

"I am." But I am not. I'd been having a dream...

A lovely one. Of a beautiful creature caressing my face with whispery touches. Of ginger hair falling loosely about my face, and a generalized feeling of being filled and surrounded, covered in warmth and security.  

I've dreamt about the naiads a few times since Ron and I were on Exmoor last week. Perhaps their magic has some lingering effects. It could also be that I've been working with the beautiful ginger locks unceasingly since I got them, cementing the image of them in my brain. 

Turns out that the melanocortin-1 receptor, the recessive gene that causes ginger hair and freckles, is a veritable treasure trove of research possibilities. My intentions were to harness the healing potential of the hair, but I've stumbled upon something even broader and unbelievably exciting. 

And here I go again, letting my racing thoughts deny me my already limited sleep allowance.

I'm tired and it's early and I was at the lab much later than I should have been last night. I burrow further down into the bed. Still, it's pleasant to wake up here in his arms where it's warm. I've been here every night this week, telling myself that it's because we've been working so late and it's closer to the hospital and something else about convenience...

But really, it's just nice. And comfortable. And indulgent to be able to be with him in that way, whenever I want. I've decided that setting arbitrary limitations on when and where and how often was pretty silly. It feels good, and I don't want to deny myself. Haven't I done that enough?

Plus, he's leaving tomorrow. I am not sad, exactly, but... apprehensive at the thought of his being away for a whole week. Like there will be a small gap where he has been spending most of his time recently. Namely, very near to me.

For instance, right now I can feel the reassuring warmth of him all along the whole length of my back, which makes me instinctively edge backwards into him like a cat. His long fingers slide up the length of my thigh, then my hip, leaving pleasing warmth in their path.

"Mmmm..." is about all I can manage as I roll over to face him. I snuggle back under the blankets and weave my arms and legs back into his. Burrow my head into the soft hairs on his chest. So nice. This room is cold now that last night's fire had gone out.

He looks so adorably disheveled with his mussed up hair and examining me through those sleepy green eyes. And when he plants a kiss on the top of my head, I reflect for the thousandth time on just how handsome he really is.

Impulsively, I curve into him, wanting to be even closer. Hoping to be nonchalant, I slide my arm around his bare waist and then lower, bringing it to rest on his bum. With my head still against his chest, I can feel rather than hear a long low growl come from the depths of him. Obviously I'm not as nonchalant as I suppose.

But he's just as shameless and bends down and meets my lips with his own. I could kiss him all morning. I shift up onto one elbow, raising myself above him without removing my lips from his. His long fingers grasp my hips they way he did last night and I feel a shiver all the way down my spine. 

But just as I make to roll onto him, he stills me, pausing. And then he breaks our kiss with a reluctant little moan.

"What is it?" I ask. To my surprise, I'm almost pouting at the interruption.

He smiles broadly at my impatience. "You sure you won't come with me?"

_Oh, damn._ I was hoping perhaps we were done discussing it. He and his sister Charlotte--and her new husband Michael, much to Gus's dismay--are travelling to their parents' home in Carlisle for Christmas, and as he's not been home for more than a year, he's decided to take a few days off and extend his visit.  

I'm glad for him. He speaks of his family often, and while I don't think he is exactly missing them on a daily basis, I know he'll have fun while he's there. 

Problem is, he's asked me to join them. And I said no. 

It was the first row we've had--well, if you could even call it that--and it wasn't terrible, actually. But he was disappointed, and confused. As usual, my parents are travelling for the holidays. But as I opted not to join them, Gus saw no reason why I shouldn't be with him in Carlisle.

Really, I can't think of any reason why I shouldn't be there either. But I like to think I'm the type of person who does things with intent, and not just because I can't think of a reason _not_ to. So I went with my instinct, which was to decline. 

I told him I had promised Molly I'd be at Christmas dinner at the Burrow, which is partially true. My invitation there is a standing one, and that's where I've been for the hols for the last two years. 

But that's not really why I declined his invitation. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but I suppose it just feels a bit soon to be meeting his parents. It would be one thing if they were coming to town and we were planning dinner. But to spend a few days with them--with _him_ \--at their home, and at Christmas...well, that might be making some sort of statement about our relationship that I'm not ready to make. 

Of course, I didn't tell him any of this. I don't want to send a signal that I'm unhappy or cautious or guarded either. 

He's looking at me now, sincerely hopeful that I may still have a change of heart.

"Gus, please don't read into it. I just have plans for the holiday and I think I should stick with them. They're family to me, too."

He nods, concedes. "We'll have dinner with my parents next time they're in town. Yeah?"

"Of course. I'd like that," I say against his neck. He kisses me back and I think he's placated until he makes to throw the covers off. To get up. But I catch his wrist and pull him back.

"Don't you dare leave this bed, Mr. Pye. We don't have to be at the hospital for two hours."

My bossiness is rewarded with his conspiratorial smile as he complies and comes back in close to wrap himself around me once more. Only then do I feel as if we're okay.

~

"Happy Christmas, Hermione!" Ginny greets me at the door with a kiss and trades me my cloak for something in a warm mug. I take a sip and discover that it's Butterbeer, only _improved_ a bit, in the true spirit of the hols. And I'm assuming that it's Ginny herself who's made the improvements, because it's strong enough to curl my toes. 

She's about as big as a minute, and she can still drink any one of her brothers under the table. Not that she has had much of an opportunity to do much of that lately. 

Now that she's finished the Trainee Healer program, she's been on a rotation that involves more hours than even I'm inclined to work. She's there whenever I'm coming and going at least. 

As I follow her into the parlour, I think on how in the space of a few short years her life has changed completely and yet she seems not to have changed at all. A successful young woman with a promising career and a fiancé who thinks the sun rises and sets in her eyes. And yet, she doesn't hesitate to throw a hex or two at her brothers, engage in a tickle fight with her dad, or just generally act silly whenever she feels like it. 

I'm just settling into an empty chair when Etienne comes barreling into the room with Ron hot on his trail. 

"Harmonie!" Etienne calls out and runs right into me in a hug that is more like a tackle. I'm delighted he remembers me, as I haven't seen him since a picnic at the end of the summer. He's getting so much taller! Such a little man.

"All right, Hermione? Didn't know you were here," Ron relieves me of my teetering drink and places it on the side table. Etienne in is my lap now, so instead of the usual embrace I get my kiss on the temple. Ron looks fantastic in a black jumper and jeans, and I tell him so. 

"Thanks! Mum's completely narked, though," he says in my ear, a hint of mischief in his voice. "I guess we were meant to dress for dinner." The way he shrugs and gives me a contrite smile is lovely.

"You, on the other hand, look stunning. Been a while since I've seen you in anything other than a lab coat or jeans. I'd forgotten how well you clean up."

"Thanks, Ron. It's new," I say, referring to the wool wrap dress that is currently being creased beyond repair by a very wiggly toddler. "Christmas present from my mum."

Then I notice he seems to be alone. "Wendy's not here?" I ask.

"Nah. She's at her brother's. Her niece really wanted her to come, so she decided to go there for Christmas this year." 

"That's too bad. For us, I mean. I should have liked to see her again."

"How'd the naiad hair work out then?" he asks suddenly, reminding me that despite how much time I've spent thinking about naiads and their tresses, I've not seen him since the night we encountered them. 

"Oh, Ron, it's been a blinding success! I can't thank you enough for letting me go with you. I've combined calcium carbonate and kaolin with the naiads' hair--"

"Naiads?" asks Harry, approaching us from across the room. "Who's been dealing with naiads? Tricky work, that."

"Well, Ron has, down on Exmoor last week. I went, too, and we got some naiad hair...and Harry, you wouldn't believe my preliminary findings."

Harry nods a sort of compliment to Ron and then says to me, "That's great, Hermione. I know they're rare. Good catch."  

"Dinner's ready!" Molly calls from the kitchen. Bill calls Etienne down from my lap. I turn to watch as everyone in the room gets to their feet and files into the kitchen.   
  
The meal is delicious and cheerful. Having Christmas dinner here feels different than at my parents' home. And I don't believe they'd mind that assessment, really. 

My relationship with my parents is wonderful, and I wouldn't change a thing about it, but we're not the Weasleys. Somehow it's more affectionate here in Molly's kitchen. There's more laughing, and we definitely linger at the table longer. Perhaps that's what's different. 

We're all practically in tears laughing at Fred and George recount a story about a customer.

Fred starts, "He comes in to buy a few things and looks at our Hair Colour Unction. He mentions that his girlfriend's been looking left, right and centre for a longer-lasting potion. So we sell him some Triple-Renewing Blonde Bomb and send him on his way."

"Next week," George continues, "he shows up with this beautiful blonde girl on his arm and I ask her ‘Oh, did the hair potion work out for you then? Staying blonde longer?'"

Fred laughs, "...and the poor sod is behind her telling George to shut his gob, and the girl glares at the bloke and storms out. Turns out _that_ one was a real blonde."

And so the meal passes that way, one round of laughter after another. Before long I notice Charlie and George getting up to clear dishes, and Molly readying what I presume to be Christmas pudding over at the worktop.

Arthur asks me, "When are we going to meet this young man of yours, Hermione? We hear he's an awfully nice bloke."

Maybe I'm imagining it, but I swear I see Bill's eyes flicker almost immediately to Ron. But I can't really confirm this, because I'm trying to hide my flush by keep my gaze on my hands in my lap for the moment. 

Then I say, "Thank you for asking, Arthur. He is rather nice. I'm very happy."

"Well, bring him round, Hermione. We'd love to meet him," Molly says as she places a dish of pudding in front of me. 

"Alright, Molly, I'll make a point of it. Thank you."

Just then, of the corner of my eye, I catch Harry looking at his plate nervously. I'm about to give him a nudge when he clears his throat and rises clumsily to his feet, nearly knocking over his goblet in the process. 

 "Speaking of being very happy," he begins looking down at Ginny, "Ginny and I have an announcement to make." 

"Yeah, yeah, Potter," jeers Charlie in fun. "We know...you're engaged. You told us already."

"Got _more_ news?" asks George. 

"Oi! Gin, you're pregnant!" shouts Fred.

"Argggh, will you lot shut it and let him finish?!" says Ginny.

Ron's eyes are smiling at me over his water goblet and I shoot back a knowing grin, as we share the same thought: _Poor Harry_. But Ron's enjoying Harry becoming part of the family even more than he thought he would; he's realising the benefit of having someone other than himself for his brothers to take the piss out of. 

"That's ENOUGH!" Arthur finishes the volley. "Go on, Harry."

Harry shakes his long hair back off his face and exhales audibly before finally finishing, "We'd like... That is, Ginny and I would like to ask you all to join us this New Year's Eve when we exchange our vows."

"Already?!" Molly fairly bellows. "Ginny, _no_...We haven't even had time to plan yet. Oh, I'm sorry, Harry dear, you know we're thrilled, but so soon?"

Ginny stands now, and takes Harry's hand. When she speaks, it is more quietly than before. "Mum, surely it can't surprise you that we want to do something low profile. We were thinking just family, maybe dinner at Grimmauld Place?"

Molly opens her mouth to speak again, but Arthur quiets her by gently placing his hand on her arm. "It's understandable, of course," he says. "We'll help you have whatever wedding you'd like. It's your day."

Molly's clearly vexed, but makes no more attempt to dissuade them. I can actually feel Harry relax next to me. 

Finally Ron speaks. "Cheers, mate. Now I've got to spend New Year's Eve with you as well. Getting right tired of you." But he's the first one over to hug Harry, and the sight of them still so close after all this time makes me tear up. 

"And _you_ , get up here," Ron says to me, pulling me up between them, where they crush me in a hug so tight I can barely breathe.

Goblets and glasses are refilled and toasts are made until eventually everyone leaves the table and retires to the parlour. Ginny gets me alone over by the fire and immediately asks me to be her bridesmaid at the wedding. I'm so stunned that I don't answer right away. Which apparently makes her feel the need to go on.

"You know, Fleur's come a long way and all," she says, nodding in the direction of Bill and his wife across the room. "But Hermione, you're really the closest thing I have to a sister. And you're the one I'd like to have next to me that day. Just the two of us...keep it small."

So touched am I by her words that I can't even muster a response. I just grab her and squeeze her like mad. 

"So that's a yes?" she laughs into my hair.

"Yes, of course, Ginny! Yes! I would be so honoured to be a part of this." And I'm crying and she's crying and we've just fallen down to sit on the hearth rug, looking like a couple of ninnies when Harry comes over to join us. 

"So I take it you've asked her, then?" he says to Ginny, kneeling down next to us. "Unless you're crying about a failed experiment or something." 

I give him a playful shove. "For your information, I've had very _little_ in the way of failed experiments lately."

"Oh, that's right. I wanted to ask you about that, actually." He glances over to Ron, who can be seen through the open kitchen door, but is thoroughly occupied with some story Charlie's telling him. "Ron really approached the naiads without backup?" 

I nod eagerly. "He did. It was amazing, Harry. I couldn't even think straight. I'm not sure what sort of training they've given him at the Department, but--"

"That's the thing, Hermione. You can't _train_ someone to deal with naiads."

Ginny and I exchange a confused look; she shrugs. "I'm not following, Harry. You mean it's like a gift or something?"

"Dunno...I'm planning on asking Hagrid more about it. He teaches naiads to his N.E.W.T. level students. But from what I remember from last year's lesson, the only true protection against a naiad is love."

"Love?" asks Ginny.

"Pretty sure, yeah." he continues. "Well, and gender too. It only works for men. Only human males who are in love can resist the charms of the naiads. Traditionally, married men are called upon for the task. It's right dangerous for anyone else to attempt it."

Ginny adds, "I can imagine the giggling in class over _that_ one."

"Too right," he says.

The ruddy simplicity of this hits me like a hammer. I've been too excited about my results this last week to dig any further into naiad lore. Not that I had any reason to question Ron's explanation. But this is so obviously why he brushed it off; he didn't want to offer up Wendy as the reason why he's able to perform the task. 

Because he's in love with her. 

Despite Ron having told me himself that he suspects this to be true, it still stings somehow to have it definitively confirmed. 

"Well..." I'm not sure what my response should be. I decide to go for indifferent, since enthusiastic might seem a bit overreaching. "I suppose that makes sense, Harry, given his feelings for Wendy. He told me he loves her."

"What?" Harry, who had been watching Ron and Charlie, snaps his attention back to me. "He actually told you that?" He's incredulous.  
   
"Yes. Last week, in fact."

"Wow," utters Ginny. " _Really_?" 

"What? It's not that surprising." I take a sip of wine and try to act as if we're speculating about Kenmare's chances in the upcoming season. "I mean, you've seen them together." 

"Oh, I don't know," says Ginny. " _I'm_ surprised. Don't mistake me - I think she's brilliant. And I know he cares for her, sure, but ...I don't know."

"Yeah," says Harry. "I wouldn't bet the vault on it either." 

I don't see how they can question it, given the naiad evidence. I would continue the debate if Ron weren't on his way in from the kitchen to join us. He's still laughing from whatever it is Charlie's been on about, and he's flushed and happy and plops himself down on the rug right next to me.

"What are you lot talking about over here? Looks serious."

Harry comes up with, arr"We were asking Hermione to be in our wedding party, actually. And I'm glad you're here, cause we'd like to ask you, too. To be my best man. You know, if you're available, that is."

The corner of Ron's mouth turns up as he searches for something witty to say to hide how touched he is. But he can't pull it off; he takes the formal route instead. "Of course, mate. You know I will."

Then with a nod in Ginny's direction he adds, "Besides, someone might need to keep you from backing out at the last minute." _So much for being formal._ He barely has the words out when she tackles him. 

We all know Ron to be extremely ticklish, and Ginny is merciless. She pins him and goes straight for the neck. Her quick action gives her the upper hand and soon Ron is beneath her, laughing and squirming and flailing. They are a sight, and soon the whole room is laughing with them. From across the room, Etienne sees the commotion, and like any self-respecting toddler, immediately barrels over to join in the fray, leaping onto his aunt and uncle with wild abandon. 

They don't see him coming though. And when Ron heaves Ginny upward, Etienne is accidentally thrown up off of the pair in the direction of the fireplace. It's one of those moments in which time seems to stand still, and it's as if he's actually hovering in midair. 

But then Harry's reflexes kick in. In a wink, he reaches out and snatches Etienne out of the air and prevents him from going headlong into the stone hearth. But Harry's angle prevents him from catching him. He can only change his direction, so that the toddler is launched straight toward me, landing in a jumble of legs and arms and screams. But he's alright. The room lets out a collective breath. 

As to me, I'm sprawled out flat on my back with my skirt up around my waist. Thankfully, as it's below freezing outside, I've worn black woolen tights under my new dress. 

Naturally this fact doesn't prevent the predictable snickers from the Weasley boys in the room.

" _Sanite marie mere de dieu_! Etienne!" She rushes over to collect the wailing child, who I realize am still holding tightly to my body. 

Ron is still on the floor next to me and moves closer to ask, "Are you hurt?" 

"No, I don't think so. I'm okay."

Then I see it. The smirk is back. 

 "What?" 

"Nothing," he replies quietly, helping me pull my dress down and rise from the floor. "That's just the first time I've ever found myself jealous of a three-year-old." 

For a moment, I can't believe I've heard him correctly. But it's unmistakable. Suggestive tone, lowered voice. He's practically waggling his eyebrows, for God's sake. 

He's flirting. With me.

What does _that_ mean?

I'm not at all sure what it means, but I do know how I feel. _Infuriated_. I all but shake his hand off my arm where it still rests. 

"Odd, that." It comes out of my mouth meaner than I intended.

He looks confused. "What's odd?"

Under my breath I answer, "To envy something you were offered and passed up." 

His dropped jaw tells me that he's at least taken aback by my words. And then I busy myself with fixing my clothes and move slowly away from him toward the kitchen, all while trying not to appear as if I'm walking away in a strop. Which I am. 

My mind is racing. How dare _he_ flirt with _me_? In the history of my relationship with Ron, I have never thought him to be as mean as I do right now. On every previous occasion when he's broken my heart, I've always attributed it to his bad judgment or carelessness or just not returning my feelings - for which I never blamed him. But I never once thought him cruel.

But to stand here less than a year after rejecting me outright, when he's admitted his love for someone else, and flirt with me? It just smacks of teasing, and I'm as surprised at him as I am hurt. 

My immediate plan is to find some other person to latch onto in the house, with whom I can chat until it's late enough to thank Molly and Arthur and then leave. I spot Bill across the room and decide he'll do nicely. 

"Haven't talked to you all day, Bill. Things at the bank been busy?"

"Happy Christmas, Hermione. Yes, they're well. But mad as ever..."

And he proceeds to tell me about some newly adopted standards for converting the value of gems to Galleons. Apparently the goblins are furious. I try to seem interested, but really I'm watching the clock. An hour past pudding is reasonable, I should think.  

When it seems reasonable, I quietly seek out Arthur and ask him to make my goodbyes for me. "Forgive me, but I'm just feeling a little tired."

Being the dad that he is, he puts a hand to my head. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No, no... I'm sure it's just the combination of long hours and last minute shopping."

He looks concerned, but gives me his warm embrace and helps me on with my cloak. All the while muttering about working too much and having a nice bath and some hot tea. He and Molly become more and more alike as the years pass, I swear. 

And then I gather my things and head for the kitchen door, escaping the unease that has slowly crept into my head. Once outside, the full force of the frigid air hits me like a wall. But I'm thankful for it. 

Taking a moment to properly button my cloak, I take a deep breath and try to calm down so that I can Disapparate. 

And then I jump at the slam of the heavy oak door behind me. I know who it is even before he speaks.

"Hermione, wait!" 

It's him. But I don't turn.

"I didn't know you were leaving. Look, about earlier...I'm sorry, Hermione. I didn't mean it--"

He stops when I finally round on him. "I _know_ , Ron. I know you didn't. And really, that's the problem, isn't it?"

The look on his face is all I can see as I Disapparate. He looks hurt, and sad, and sorry. And heaven help me, I'm glad for it. 

~

 

_So many people to thank this time around. Snorkackcatcher and Pandora_jones for the Britspeak check, miss_elisha and cariad2 for the crack beta job, and this_is_kelly for the Frenching (sadly not the exciting kind)._

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes: Many thanks to my friends cariad, deena_s, and gwen1170 fo the beta help!  


* * *

 

Chapter Seven 

~

“You’ve slept with him?” Ginny asks, a hand to her mouth.

“Are you shocked?” I ask, my eyes darting around to see if anyone is listening to us.

Ginny giggles. Why is it that Ginny is a grown woman and yet can pull off a giggle without looking like a ninny? 

“No, Hermione, I’m not shocked. I think he’s great. And well fit,” she adds, waggling her eyebrows.  

Then hesitates for a moment and asks, “Is he good in bed?” 

“Ginny!” 

But I’m laughing at her, and blushing profusely. “I don’t have much to compare him to, but yes, I’ve no complaints.”  

She squeals. “Good on you!” 

My cheeks feel like they’re on fire, but it feels good to feel good about Gus again. It makes me realise how much I’ve missed him. They’ll be back in town this afternoon, in fact. 

“Well, wait until he sees you in this dress!”

Ginny has dragged me out shopping today under the guise of getting away from her mother. It seems Molly has been flooing every five minutes to discuss some new detail about the wedding, while Harry and Ginny are quite content allow the event to be relatively freeform. 

After Ginny chose her dress and arranged for the Ministry officiate, and then the couple invited the short list of guests they wanted present, they felt like the rest didn’t really matter. 

I envy them that way; Ginny has this uncanny knack for focusing her energies only on what’s really important to her. I have a hard time letting go of the peripheral details sometimes. 

Okay, all the time. 

Anyway, Harry and Ginny promptly told Molly that they’d be grateful for whatever meal and sweets she deemed suitable. This didn’t sit well with Molly. Although she was glad to be in charge of the meal, she felt she would be remiss as the mother of the bride if she didn’t obsess over copious other details as well.

Ginny showed up at my door this morning pleading for refuge. I just need to avoid her for one more day, she whinged. 

I suspect, though, that she had ulterior motives for getting me to the dress shop. At present, she’s holding up a stretchy little strapless thing that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. 

“Honestly, Ginny. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Okay, okay. It’s not quite right. I’m determined, though, to have you looking so smashing you steal all my attention tomorrow night.” She continues to rummage through the rack of dresses. 

I glance at my watch. Three hours until I meet up with Gus. I purposely cleared my schedule so that I could surprise them at the train station and whisk him away to dinner. Welcome him back properly…

“This is it!” Ginny’s declaration brings me out of my thoughts. 

She’s holding a beautiful - and tiny - flowing dress in a striking dark raspberry colour. It’s got a sort of halter in front, and a bare back. Did I mention it’s tiny? 

I can’t help reach out to touch the fabric, though. It’s a sort of gauzy silk, one layer over the other, giving it a dreamy quality. Really, it’s striking. 

“Ginny, I’m not sure. It’s not really the type of style I usually go in for.”

“That’s the problem Hermione. You’ve got an amazing figure. Why don’t you show it off a little?”   

She’s got a point. It is a special occasion, after all. It wouldn’t kill me to try something a bit different. And the dress is gorgeous. I wonder if I can get away with it. 

“Come on, then. Try it on!” Ginny urges. 

I comply, and then stand looking dumbstruck at my reflection in the fitting room mirror. For a brief moment, I consider calling out to her that it doesn’t fit. Because I know if I step outside the curtain, there will be no choosing not to buy it. Ginny won’t let me get away with it. It’s that perfect. 

“Hermione, get out here. I know you’ve got it on.” She draws back the curtain to check on me. 

“Oh, Hermione…”

She’s right. I look beautiful. I feel beautiful. Still, it’s a bit unnerving…my shoulders and arms and back are entirely bare. Still, it’s so tailored that it really can’t be considered distasteful. 

“Ginny, it’s winter. I’m going to freeze in this. Plus, I never dress like this. It’s not me.” 

She peeks over my shoulder to meet my eyes in the mirror. “Trust me, Hermione. It’s you, only sexier. Let yourself shine a bit. I know at least one of my brothers will be kicking himself that he’s not there with you.”

I spin to look at her directly. “What?”

“Well, it’s true. He blew it.” She sighs heavily. “Hermione, what happened?”

I shake my head, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We just thought…that is, Harry and I always suspected that you and Ron--”

“Oh, Ginny. I guess I thought so, too. When we were younger. But times change…I’ve changed. We’re just meant to be friends, I suppose.” 

She shrugs. “Well, it’s his loss. And for the record, I really like Gus.”

“Me, too.” And I do like Gus. Gus is brilliant. And kind. And gorgeous. 

So why does talking about Ron still make me ache?

“Speaking of Gus,” Ginny says, “He’s going to die when he sees you in this dress.”

She doesn’t need to do much more convincing. I had my mind made up from the moment I put it on. I can’t resist. 

Ron Weasley be damned.

~

It’s unseasonably warm for the end of December. Christmas was frigid and Boxing Day set a record low. Now, only a few days later, I find myself unbuttoning my cloak because I’m so warm from the walk to Euston station. 

And that’s even before I step inside where it’s even warmer, presumably because it’s so crowded with holiday travellers. 

He’s arriving on Platform Three, according to the timetable. Southbound train from Carlisle arrives at 5:25. Naturally, I’m a bit early, so I find a bench and try to convince myself that I’m reading the newspaper while I surreptitiously check the arrivals. 

Sure enough, I see the train rolling in with about two minutes to spare, and I position myself in order to better see the passengers leaving the train. Given that he doesn’t expect to see me here, it would be just my luck to have him miss me.

Just when it seems that no more people could have possibly been inside this one train, I spot his sandy head just above the heads of the rest of the crowd. Rather than wait for him to spot me, I start to make my way through the crowd toward him. 

And, embarrassingly enough, I do it at a bit of a run. 

His face lights up in the loveliest way when he sees me, and he moves out of the crowd a bit to drop his bags and pull me into his arms and kisses me, right here in the station. 

“Blimey! It was just a week, you two,” comes the teasing voice of Charlotte’s husband Michael, as the pair of them catches up to where Gus and I are standing. 

Charlotte swats him. “Shut it, you. Let them have their moment, will you?”

Charlotte looks beautiful, rested and almost glowing. Makes me wonder briefly if there’s any truth to the myth about pregnant women. Not that I’d be comfortable asking her, mind. They’ve only been married two months. 

I didn’t attend their wedding, as Gus and I had only just started seeing each other at that point, and the event was out of town. Mostly I’ve spoken to her through Gus’s fireplace, and she’s always been nice to me. 

“Marriage apparently suits you, Charlotte. You look very well.” 

“Thank you, Hermione. Maybe if my little brother knows what’s good for him, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough.” 

What? Is this what he’s been telling them? It doesn’t occur to me that this could be her wishful thinking, and not her brother’s. 

 “Oh! Charlotte, I wouldn’t hold my breath,” I say, in an attempt at humour. “Marrying your brother is the furthest thing from my mind!”

“Cheers, Hermione,” says Gus from my side. He looks affronted. “It’s not that absurd a notion.”

“That’s not what I meant, Gus!” And it’s really not what I meant. I meant to say that it’s a bit soon to be thinking about marriage. But that’s not what came out…oh, Hermione, why don’t you think when you choose your words?

There’s not time to discuss it further, as the throng moves in for the departing train and we are hurried along by the guard. Besides, it’s necessary to make our goodbyes to Charlotte and Michael, who are off to the opposite end of the city. 

With a promise to have dinner soon, we part ways and move toward the station doors. 

Gus declines my offer to go out, saying he’s exhausted from both the trip and the traveling. This is fine by me, and so we head back to his flat, where he showers and unpacks and I make us soup and sandwiches. 

It turns out to be a much nicer homecoming anyway. The fire is warm, and we spend hours in front of it, polishing off a bottle of red wine as he tells me of his week. His mother’s gentle nagging, his father’s interest in hearing about our work, and finally his admission that “Michael isn’t such a bad bloke, after all.’

Seeing his sister with her new husband this Christmas apparently won him over at last. “He’s obviously mad for her,” he says. “And dotes on her. I can’t ask for more than that.”

“No, you can’t. They seem happy.” 

He nods, and smiles down at me, where I’ve wedged myself into the warm crook of his shoulder. 

“So, you haven’t told me much about your holiday.”

Needless to say, thinking about Christmas day calls to mind a specific row, and there’s no need to tell him any of that. But I do share some of the countless anecdotes that Christmas at the Burrow always provides, and fill him in on Harry and Ginny’s big news. He’s delighted when I ask him to accompany me to the wedding tomorrow night. 

“I’m glad to be home, Hermione. I did miss you. I know it was just a week, and it probably seems silly. But I’ve been looking forward to just being together like this.”

“Just this?” I ask. 

“No, not just this.” 

He lowers his mouth to mine, making me so glad he’s back. His warm hands find their way under the throw, exploring and relearning all the special places. 

I, too, find myself with wandering hands -- eager to make a connection. And his kisses are so deep, so warm, so teasing, that when he finally pulls me astride him, where I can feel the familiar heat building between us, I’m the one that breaks first.

“Gus, let’s go to bed.” 

We take less time with the sex, but it is still good. I feel even more affectionate toward him after seeing him with his sister. I feel lucky, and tell him so. 

“No, I’m lucky,” he counters. “It’s been a good year.”

I close my eyes and smile, stretching my arms up and over my head in a feline gesture. He stands up and walks across the dim room to blow out the candle on top of his dresser. He could’ve used his wand, I suppose, but the view of his naked form makes me glad he didn’t.

He feels his way back into bed. Back to me. 

I scoot into him, cradling myself against his back. It feels like a proper conclusion to the day. We do not speak, though, as we usually do. Almost immediately, Gus’s breath is rhythmic and deep. It comforts me; I take it as a sign that he harbours no offence about my careless comment earlier at the station.

I breathe deeply the scent from the back of his neck. I close my eyes and try to remember the smell of another. Once so familiar to me and now a fleeting memory, as if from a half-remembered dream. 

The perfect warmth of Gus’s body next to mine makes me grateful. With my mouth against the angular slope of his shoulder blade, I try to memorize the shape of his neck. Like a map. Even in the dark, I am moved by the beauty of him. I am living as I so often wished I would, and yet it feels more like a transition than a resolution. 

This is something I admit to myself only in the dark of night, when he is asleep. As if I thought it when he was awake he’d hear it, too.

I try to lose myself in the perfection of the moment as best I can. His large warm feet beneath the sheet. His arm tucked up under the pillow, and his head. His long, strong, back. His buttocks, perfect in their roundness. His fingers, callused in places, but relaxed now, in a nonchalant curve around my forearm. The salty taste of his skin beneath my tongue. The length of his neck, which is nearly poignant to me, with its quiet strength. 

These things I deposit, like Galleons in a bank, before I, too, abandon myself to sleep. 

~

Please review...


	8. Chapter 8

 

_Chapter Eight_

~

"You look perfect," I tell her. She does. 

Ginny's gown suits her; it's plain ivory silk, unadorned by beads or lace or anything else. Similarly, her hair falls loose about her shoulders rather than being arranged in some intricate fashion. 

I'm so glad she's decided on a simple dress. She might just be the most beautiful woman I know, and to mask it with unnecessary display would just ruin the effect. As she stands here now, she just looks like...well, like _Ginny_. 

Uncomplicated but radiant. Stunning in every way.

Molly comes in and gasps at my appearance. I'm assuming she's already seen Ginny by the way she moves around her to gawp at me instead.

"Oh, _Hermione_. You look stunning, dear. Just stunning!" She proceeds to tear up. 

"Mum, _please_." Ginny rolls her eyes at me, but moves to comfort her mother nonetheless. She whispers something to Molly, and they share a private little laugh. 

I'm a tic away from feeling like a third wheel when Ginny turns and pulls me back in. "It's the tenth time today," she says, nodding toward her mother. "At least this time it was you that started it and not me."

"Oh, shut it, Ginevra," says Molly, giving her daughter a playful swat on the backside. "Just because you're the bride, you don't get to shush me. I'll cry if I want to. I just can't believe you're all so grown up." 

"Molly, you look beautiful as well." Molly is one of those people who looks softer with age, never older. 

She kisses my cheek. "Hermione, Ginny tells me Gus will be here tonight. I'm looking forward to meeting him." 

"Yes, Gus he's meeting me here. In fact, I should check soon to see if he's arrived." 

Downstairs, guests are arriving, milling about. Harry is chatting with Kingsley, not looking at all nervous. Remus and Tonks are in a corner with Arthur, talking quietly. 

I enter the foyer just as Ron emerges from the kitchen. For a moment, it's just the two of us in the echoing hall. 

I'm not sure what to say to him. We haven't really spoken since Christmas. But I don't want to prolong the row. It's Harry and Ginny's wedding day. We can at least get along. 

When he says something, I'll be courteous and pretend like nothing happened. 

If he ever says anything. He's just standing there. 

"Ron?"

I see his eyes steal a furtive look at my form underneath my dress. There's not much left to the imagination. He blows out a long breath. 

 

"Sorry, I just...you look... Fuck, Hermione," he says as he runs a hand shakily through his hair. "That dress is just plain cruel to a bloke."

 

I should reprimand for his language, but I'm too stunned. And part of me wonders why I'm not reacting the same way I did last week; he has no right to comment on my appearance. Or even take notice of it, for that matter. 

 

But it feels different than last week. I don't feel teased. He's trying to be funny, to be sure, but his nervousness gives him away. He's not just paying a compliment. The way he's looking at me...it's the way someone looks at you when they're-

 

"Hey Weasley, stop ogling my girl!" Gus enters the foyer.

 

Ron looks horrified, opening his mouth to say something but finding nothing that works. Meanwhile Gus wraps an arm about my waist and leans in to kiss my jaw. "You look amazing," he whispers. 

 

When he notices Ron still silent, Gus laughs and slaps him on the shoulder. "I'm kidding, mate, of course. I know you and Harry are like brothers to her."

 

"Yeah. ‘Course," Ron says, holding out his hand to shake Gus's.

 

"Besides," Gus adds, smiling. "Doesn't matter who ogles. I'm the one that gets to take her home tonight." 

 

This causes Ron to look back to me. He looks at _me_ -not Gus-when he says, "Careful there, Gus. That's my _sister_ you're talking about." 

 

His tone sounds sarcastic to me, but apparently not to Gus. 

 

Gus chuckles. Ron smiles good-naturedly. I laugh at the two of them, rolling my eyes. But for some reason I feel like I'm going to throw up.  

 

Thankfully, Ron excuses himself to go get ready, and Gus takes me into his arms once more. It soothes me and reminds me that I'm pleased he's here tonight. 

 

"You okay?" he asks. "You look odd."

 

"Cheers." I swat him.

 

He leans back in to nuzzle my neck. "Oh shut it, you look good enough to eat. Which I plan to do later, actually." This earns him a second swat. "I just meant you seem a bit frazzled."

 

_Do I?_ "I suppose it's just been a long day. Busy getting ready, running interference between Molly and Ginny. Speaking of which, I should really get back. Just a few minutes until we start. See you in a bit?"

 

"You bet."

 

~

 

In the past, I'd always thought it a bit of a mistake when two people as young as Harry and Ginny marry. Maybe it's that I've always thought there were things I wanted to accomplish by myself, and _for_ myself, before I'd be ready to commit myself to a partnership.  

 

But standing here looking at these two people ready to make a lifetime contract, it's obvious that this isn't a moment too soon for them. They're both exactly where they want to be in their lives-with and without each other.

 

They're ready for this. And it strikes me how genuinely impressive that is.

 

The Ministry officiate is a wizard named Alan Baker. I've not met him before tonight; Ginny said he came on Tonks' recommendation. And he is as warm and congenial as she described him to be. 

 

"I perform dozens of marriage ceremonies every year," he begins, "and they are all extraordinary in some way. Couples can come to know each other in many ways, and regardless of the details and circumstances of the journey, the resulting union is always a thing to behold. 

 

"But today is particularly special, as Harry and Ginevra have had the rare opportunity to grow up together-to watch the other grow into the man and woman they are today. When two people take that journey together, from childhood friends to adult friends, and then find their way to each other as partners in life and love, the shared history is all the more meaningful."

 

Arthur meets my eyes, and flashes me a warm smile, which I return readily. But he confuses me then by glancing from me over to Ron, who is directly opposite me, standing next to Harry.

 

Naturally, I follow Arthur's gaze and look at Ron as well. He's listening intently to what the officiate is saying. It's endearing, actually, how seriously he's taking it.

 

"...having the luxury of being intimate friends first gives a couple a solid foundation on which to build their love."

 

I'd be lying if I pretended even to myself that the emphasis of the ceremony didn't feel strikingly familiar. It's the yarn I'd pinned all my childhood hopes on, and so it's doubly uncanny to be hearing it while looking right at Ron, who's standing two feet in front of me, hearing it as well. 

 

When he feels the weight of my gaze and meets my eyes I feel as if my heart might stop. But I don't avert them. Somehow by looking away, it seems I'd be admitting I was looking in the first place.

 

And so we're stuck, staring at each other in defiant uncertainty. 

 

"Ginny, Harry is a part of who you are. Harry, your love and your shared past with Ginny have helped you become the person you are today."

 

"Too right," says Harry, which is greeted by good-natured sniggers throughout the room. Ginny glares at him, albeit with a twinkle in her eye, which serves to quiet him from further comment. 

 

And so it goes.

 

Harry and Ginny are married in a ceremony that mirrors their relationship in every way: passionate, humorous, and surrounded and supported by those who love them.

 

~

Dinner is lovely, of course. Molly beams at the praise that is sent her way as a result. The atmosphere is merry and the guests are all in good spirits. It's all beautiful and simple and elegant. Exactly the way they predicted it would be. 

As it gets later, guests start to make their farewells, wishing Harry and Ginny their best, thanking them for a lovely time. And soon we are a small number-or, as small as the Weasleys can get anyway-only Molly and Arthur remain in the kitchen with Bill and Charlie. Fleur has taken the children home to bed but insisted Bill stay. 

Molly has forbidden anyone from cleaning up. "It can wait until morning," she said, sending us back into the parlour to have another drink and relax. And so we do.

The newlyweds are sharing an oversized stuffed chair, and except for the fact that they are wearing their wedding clothes, they look much the same as they did before they became newlyweds. I suppose I imagined they wouldn't? I'm not sure why.

I am sitting in the middle of the settee with Gus on one side and Wendy on my other. Ron sits next to Wendy's feet on the floor, leaning back against her now and again. 

"Ron," she asks, leaning forward a bit, "where'd you get this little scar on your neck?"

"Wrath of an aggrieved gnome," I interject automatically, and then curse myself inwardly for speaking for him, for sounding so...familiar. _What is wrong with me?_

I'm not sure if it's a rescue or just coincidence, but Harry changes the subject. 

 

"Ron, how long have you been working with naiads? Tricky business, that." Mercifully Harry doesn't raise the issue of _how_ naiads are managed, maybe out of politeness to Wendy, or maybe so as not to embarrass Ron.

 

Ron reddens anyway. "Why do you ask?"

 

"Hermione just said you'd done it before, and you'd never mentioned it."

 

Ron shrugs. "It's not like me to boast."

 

Ginny snorts into her champagne. "Since when?"

 

We all laugh, Ron included.

 

Gus says, "Ron, I remember reading a newspaper article about the Ministry containing a large group of naiads who'd set a trap in Ireland last winter. Was that you?" 

 

Ron looks like he wants to be modest, but his delight at being recognised gets the better of him. "Yeah, that was us."

 

A year ago? But...

 

Wendy turns to me at this point. "C'mon, Hermione, let's go get another drink. These boys will be swapping stories forever, and I fear I've already heard them all," she says pointedly to Ron, teasing. 

 

Numbly I follow her out into the kitchen, my mind kicking into high gear. Placing dates, adding up bits of information. 

 

"Wendy, when did you and Ron start seeing each other?" I wonder just as the words are already out whether that sounds like a non-sequitur to her. But she doesn't seem to think it odd, and ponders on the question for a second. 

 

"Well, our first date was a setup. A friend of mine from work who knew him...it was late in May, I think. But it wasn't until summer that we started to spend more time together. I'd be lying if I said I didn't make him chase me a bit..."

 

She's still talking but I'm not hearing a word. 

 

_May._

 

That was the earliest he could have fallen in love with Wendy. Last spring. 

 

And he successfully dealt with a group of water nymphs several months prior to that. But Ron wasn't seeing anyone last Christmas. In fact, we all spent the hols together last year. None of us had dates, save Harry and Ginny. We had Christmas at the Burrow then Ron left for a work trip to...

 

... _Ireland_. 

 

I can't breathe. Suddenly the old house feels close and warm, rather than large and drafty.

 

"Hermione, you look pale. Do you feel alright?"

 

"I'm fine. I suppose it's a bit warm in here, and the champagne. Will you excuse me, Wendy? I'm just going to go freshen up."

 

There's only one possible explanation, one conclusion, and my survival instincts won't allow my brain to go anywhere near it. All the tendrils of suspicion and intuition begin to weave themselves together into a fully formed thought that I fight to keep at bay.

 

Absently I head upstairs, seeking a quiet room to harness my runaway thoughts. I duck into Harry's bedroom, crossing the rug and leaning heavily on his bureau while I try to talk myself into calming down. If I can just reconstruct the whole thing, I know I'll see I'm leaping to conclusions. No way... 

 

But I don't get far in my thoughts when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I curse myself for not closing the door, and I hope that whoever is passing won't notice me, so that I can pretend not to notice them. 

 

But the foot fall stops. 

 

"Hermione?

 

_Oh, no._ Of all people, why him? My back is to the door. I can't seem to make my leg muscles contract enough to turn around so I just address him like this. 

 

"Oh, hello, Ron. I just needed a breather from the party." _Try to sound casual, Hermione_. 

 

I'm sure I must be trembling. I hope against hope that he can't _see_ me trembling. 

 

It's a feeble hope, though, since he's entering the room fully and coming nearer to me. To check on me.

 

"Emotional night, yeah?"

 

I still don't turn. Where I used to have hope at what I'd see when he looked at me, now I am just afraid. Afraid of my own wishes.

 

I glance to the side, at the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. It's the one Ginny and I dressed in front of earlier today. He doesn't know I can see him but I have a clear view of his profile, his expression. I watch as he closes his eyes against whatever it is he's feeling. And it's not just concern for my well-being. 

 

The struggle, so apparent in his body language, confirms all the puzzle pieces that have been slowly presenting themselves to me all day. 

 

He is right behind me now, and reaches forward, running the back of his hand gently down my bare spine. "Hey," he says softly. "You okay?"

 

_I thought I was until you just did that_. 

 

"Ron, do y-?"

 

"Yes."

 

"But I-"

 

" _Yes_."

 

I spin round to face him, to make sure. And he is, in fact, aware of the question I was about to ask. I just stare at him for a moment, not sure what to do with that information. Am I angry? Am I sorry? Am I going mad?

 

Then, in a gesture so perfect it seems like I'm watching it happen to someone else, he reaches up to touch my face.

 

So strange, it seems to me, that I'm acutely aware of this moment as a _moment_ , and I know that as an eighty-year-old woman I'll recall the details that I'm noticing now. The way his thumb is cool as it settles on the patch of skin just in front of my ear, providing a sharp contrast to the flush of his cheeks and ears. The tentative touch of his long fingers, his fingertips, cupping the underside of my scalp just above my nape. His lips slightly parted, about to speak something, deciding whether it's necessary. 

 

But it's not. 

 

It's plain to both of us.

 

Still, somehow I want him to say something. Need him to say something. "Ron?"

 

He doesn't. He just leans forward and kisses me. 

 

In my heart, it's like an explosion. All the thinly veiled innuendo over the years, all the dashed hopes, the tenuous touching, the physical frustration, the misinterpreted intentions...The sum of all those parts was a tinder box inside my chest that in this moment has gone up in flames. 

 

In my head, it more closely resembles a tidal wave in the way the memories and emotions wash over me. The way I can't get a handle on the images of our past, each thought not entirely formed before another one crashes into it. Over it. 

 

The shock and release and sheer bliss cause my knees to buckle, and I'm thankful that I'm wedged securely between him and the bureau. 

 

His long fingers fan out through my hair, and his other arm snakes around my waist to pull me up into him. I comply, of course, reaching up to him in return. To touch him in the way that I've always touched him, only now with completely different meaning. 

 

And for a moment, time stands still. This perfect moment is only about his warm lips on mine, the sigh of relief I hear in him. From him. From me as well. 

 

And I never want it to stop. Not only because it's sheer perfection, but because when he pulls away, I'll have to remember concerns other than this. I'll have to address the problem of our dates waiting for us downstairs. And the fact that I'm now the type of person who thinks of her boyfriend as a problem. 

 

Maybe it's wrong. Maybe I'm too in love too care. Or just too weak in the face of waiting for this for _so_ long that I can't bear the responsibility of doing the right thing.

 

Ron, on the other hand, seems to have his wits about him more than I do. He pulls away first. I notice for the first time that we are breathless. He leans his forehead to mine, takes a deep breath. It's the same exact position we were in when he rejected me all those months ago. 

 

But everything's changed now, hasn't it?

 

"Hermione, I can't believe we're doing this. This isn't how it's supposed to happen." He pulls further away from me and scrubs his face. The confusion, the uncertainty in his voice makes me feel as if the room has pitched.

 

"How's it _supposed to happen_ , Ron?" I hope my tone doesn't sound as sarcastic to him as it does to me.

 

He plops himself down on Harry's bed and looks up at me, bewildered. "You're supposed to marry Gus, have genius children, and live happily ever after."

 

"Why?"

 

It's a silly, simplistic question, but his was a silly, simplistic statement. And besides, it's the first thing I think. _Why? Why should that happen?_

 

"Because it's what you deserve." It's so him, this form of unbending logic. To analyse everything like some bloody riddle, and wrap it up in a tidy solution. 

 

He still doesn't see. There's nothing tidy about us. We've been a beautiful, chaotic mess since we met and it's never going to change. 

 

And neither will the way I feel. The way we _both_ feel, as I can see so clearly now. 

 

I sit next to him on the bed and repeat his words quietly, more to myself than to him. "What I deserve."

 

_Don't I deserve what my heart wants?_

 

He turns to look at me, waiting for me to argue, to cry, to react. 

 

And then Harry appears at the door, poking his head around the frame with a puzzled look on his face. When he sees us though, there is a sort of realisation there. All three of us knowing everything and not one of us saying anything.

 

But before anyone speaks, I hear the crack of someone Apparating in the hall. It makes me jump. No one else appears at the door.

 

"Harry, who's there?"

 

He doesn't answer me at first. 

 

"Harry?"

 

"Gus. It was Gus. He was just standing out here when I came up. He Disapparated." 

 

~o~

 

Minutes later I say goodnight to Ginny and Harry, wishing them a happy honeymoon trip and then say a quick goodnight to Molly and Arthur before Apparating home to my flat. All the while my thoughts racing with strategy, reasoning, and dread.

 

I'll just change quickly and then Apparate to his flat. Explain the situation to him. _How in the hell do I explain this?_

 

I begin to rehearse the possible options. Trying them out in the dark of my parlour. What I might say to him to make sense of this night.

 

_What about..._ "Nothing's ever happened between Ron and me." It's true, after all. 

 

_Or..._ "I had a crush on him when we were younger, but nothing ever came of it." 

 

"Stop it," says a voice in the dark. 

 

"Oh!" I nearly hex him before I even realise I've drawn my wand. Old habits die hard. 

 

He's sitting in the chair by the hearth, still in his dress robes. 

 

"Gus, you startled me. I was just on my way to-"

 

"How long were you going to let it go on, Hermione?" he asks, standing and moving away from me, toward the window. 

 

"Gus, I-"

 

"I feel like such an idiot. All this time, you've been letting me think there was something real between us." 

 

I approach him now, reaching out to him. "Gus," I whisper, shaking my head, "it was real."

 

He laughs at that. A terrible, derisive laugh that I've never heard from him before in as long as I've known him. 

 

" _Was_ ," he repeats back to me, in the same contemptuous tone. 

 

_Oh, no._ I did use the past tense, didn't I? I could tell him it was mistake, inadvertent. That my poor choice of words didn't mean anything.

 

But I'd be lying. 

 

Maybe I have been leading him along. Maybe all this time that I've been fooling myself, I've been fooling him, too. I've been terrible to him without even being conscious of it. 

 

This is what happens when you take someone's heart in your hands. You become responsible for its very wellbeing, like some fragile thing. You think you're taking great care, that you're appreciating its value and being responsible. And then in a moment of selfishness or capriciousness you look the other way and return to find you've allowed it to fall down with a crash.

 

It's a fact I've known above love for quite some time. A transaction with which I'm wholly familiar. I just never imagined myself on the other side of it. Which makes me feel like such a hypocrite. 

 

At this point, all I can offer him is the truth. With everything that Gus and I have been to each other, before and after becoming intimate, it's the very least I owe him.

 

I place my wand on the sill and place both hands on his back, which is to me. He doesn't shake me off, but he's stiff and unmoving. He continues to look out the window. 

 

"Gus, you don't want me."

 

"I don't." This is somewhere between a question and a statement. 

 

"You want someone who is going to love you with every bit of herself, without any other ties, without any reservations or hesitation."

 

He makes no response, so I forge on. "And that's just never going to be me. I really wanted it to be me, and I thought it could be me. But it just can't be." I can hear the unevenness in my own voice threatening, but if I don't finish what I have to say to him I might never have the courage again. 

 

I'm so thankful his back is to me, and I gently rest the top of my head against his spine to whisper the rest of what needs to be said. He lets me.

 

"Gus, I found the person I'm supposed to be with before I even knew what it _meant_ to love another person. And really, well... I've just never been truly free to love anyone else. Even if I wanted to. And I _really_ wanted to." 

 

When he does finally turn to me, his face is partially covered by the hand that rubs slowly across his forehead. It's a gesture that suggests he can rub out what he's hearing as if it's just tension. Just a headache, a long day in the lab. 

 

"Gus," I try again. 

 

He drops the hand from his face, and his expression looks neither angry nor hurt. Just tired.

 

I reach out to him, and he leans his head against my face, so that his mouth is now against my cheek. I sense the relief in his body as he allows himself to lean into me slightly, to be partially anchored by my weight.

 

But it does not last. There is one final sigh, the breath from his mouth so hot and moist and close to my own. Then he lifts his head. He wipes his face again and looks at me, and I see for the first time that there is indeed pain in his eyes. I start to touch his face, as if my fingertips could possibly remove some of it, but he intercepts my hand with his own. 

 

"Please," he says, replacing my hand by my side and then letting it go. Without another look at my face and without another word from his mouth, he turns away from me. The door shudders a little as he pulls it closed.

 

I don't try to stop him. 

 

But I do move toward the window, where I look down to see him moving away from the building, collar turned up against the cold. He doesn't Disapparate, just continues walking down the street. 

 

My eyes follow him, and when I can no longer make out his sandy head amidst the throng of people, I turn my eyes back to the sidewalk below. 

 

"Thank you," I say, forgetting he can no longer hear me. And I lean my head against the cool glass and let the tears fall freely onto the windowsill as I watch the people go about finding a happy ending to their New Year's Eves.

 


	9. Chapter 9

  
Author's notes: _As always, thanks to the best betas out there: Elisha, Stacy and Maurice._

 

* * *

  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
~

 

These mornings have always been awkward for me, the ones when I don’t have to be at work. 

 

It’s as if I don’t quite know what to do with myself when my routine is altered. Even on the weekends I’ve never been one to loll about the flat all morning; I’m usually up and away on some errand or another fairly early. 

 

So it’s especially troublesome to be rattling around here in my dressing gown, enduring the normal restlessness at the break in routine while simultaneously fending off all the racing thoughts in my head. 

 

“Pardon me,” I say to an indignant Crookshanks as he stalks past, causing me to sidestep him. The way he’s hovering, I’m sure I must be interrupting something he had planned for today.

 

I’ve taken the week off from the hospital, primarily because I can’t begin to imagine what I will say when I have to face Gus at work. Given how charitably he handled things, I’m not exactly expecting the worst, but I know what I’m capable of, and I know that I’m not ready to present my best. It’s too new, all of it. I’ll bungle it for certain. 

 

When I made the call to the hospital, I discovered that I had 34 days holiday unused. Not surprising since I haven’t used _any_ since I started the job. 

 

The appeal of hiding here in my flat wore off sometime yesterday. That’s when I realised that being trapped here with no distraction from my own thoughts doesn’t amount to very successful hiding. Today I woke early and showered and forced down some toast; I’m determined to go to market, to the library, anywhere to have a break from the all the bloody _thinking_. 

 

Clearing my dish, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Even in the blurred image I can see my puffy eyes and my pallid complexion, reminding me why I’m holed up here. 

 

I open the front door to retrieve my copy of the _Prophet_ from where the owl leaves it in winter, and take note of the headlines and the weather forecast. Can it really only be 3 January? New Year’s Eve seems like an eternity ago. Perhaps it’s because I’ve replayed the night in my head a thousand times since and I’m still not sure what exactly happened or how to feel about any of it. There’s nobody with whom I might discuss it. 

 

My parents came back from their holiday yesterday, but I’ve put them off a bit as I’m not ready to answer their questions. I’m sure they’ll be concerned in the claustrophobic way that only family can be and I’m not up to that just yet.

 

Ginny and Harry are away until Friday on a short wedding trip to the seaside. If I were to ask anyone to help me make sense of things, it would be one of them. 

 

I haven’t seen Ron either. 

 

No visits, no Floo calls, no sign of Pigwidgeon. Not that I’m angry; I haven’t tried to contact him either. I haven’t worked out what that meeting might look like. 

 

Every time I allow myself to wonder how to go forward, I can feel my hopes and intentions stumbling over and over one another. And I’m still not sure what I will do when I come face to face with him. 

 

There have been moments when I’ve come close to running straight to him, and moments when I’ve convinced myself I never want to see him again. Well, maybe not _convinced_. Just imagined momentarily, until the mere notion made me ache with longing. 

 

I have so much to say to him and I have nothing to say to him. Which is completely illogical, I know. Perhaps I really am going mad after all. 

 

The overwhelming relief and momentary joy I felt upon his confession have become completely eclipsed by my apprehension, and overshadowed by the chore of deciding what I’m supposed to _do_ with what I know now. What I _think_ I know. 

 

Despite my being fairly certain he was telling me he loved me—or even _loves_ me—I’m not willing to invest in that fully yet. Not again. 

 

What remain now are the questions that have haunted me for…let’s see…58 hours. Why did he keep his feelings within him for so damn long? And, _why_ _now_? Why, when I had finally moved on? Or when I had _thought_ I’d moved on, I suppose I should say. In the spirit of honesty. 

 

Something must have prompted Ron to show his feelings. Surely it can’t just be seeing me with Gus, simple jealousy? I refuse to believe that of him. Not after all this time. 

 

A small tapping at my door startles me from my thoughts and I’m surprised to find I’m still standing near it, holding my newspaper in one hand. 

 

_Oh hell, not today_. My well-meaning but terribly clingy neighbour Francie must have heard me, and realised I was home from work. An older witch who lives alone, Francie likes to think she’s ‘checking in on me,’ but she’s just in need of company most of the time. She’s perfectly kind, and on any other morning…

 

_-knock-knock-knock-_

Well, there’s no ignoring her. She knows I’m in here. I’ll just tell her I’m home sick, explain that I’m going back to bed. Resigned, I open the door and—

 

—gasp a bit.

 

Ron is here. 

 

At my door. 

 

Right now. 

 

After two days, he shows up at my door unannounced and I have absolutely no idea what to do. 

 

Should I pummel him? Should I kiss him? Slam the door in his face? Tell him I love him?

 

“Well,” I say. And it’s all I say. Me, the long-winded one. 

 

I was trying to sound cheerful but I think sound like…I don’t know what, but something other than cheerful. He doesn’t seem to mind. He just smiles at me in a small, understanding way. It is this smile which enables me to breathe again. 

 

“Sorry. I know it’s a bit early,” he says at last, clearly a reference to my dressing gown. “I could come back later.”

 

“No, no, don’t be silly Ron. Come on,” I move aside, allowing him to pass, before closing the door and leaning on it. Not sure where I should go or what to do. 

 

“I’ll make some tea?” I sound more like I’m asking for direction than whether he actually wants tea. Still, he works with me.

 

“Yeah, okay. I could probably use a cup, to be honest.” He takes off his cloak and tosses it over the back of the chair.

 

We’re being so formal. Why are we being so formal? 

 

Grateful for the excuse to leave the room, I will myself not to run the short distance to the kitchen. I’m shaking like a leaf. 

 

No, that’s a ruddy stupid expression. I’m more than shaky. I’m shuddering—like the very _last_ leaf on the tree, stubbornly resisting the force of the harsh autumn gusts that will inevitably send it rushing to the ground. That’s me. 

 

Still, I manage to get the kettle on and try to collect myself, which is difficult since my brain is already leaping into motion, trying to remember everything I’ve rehearsed over the last few days, everything I’ve imagined I would say when I finally saw him. 

 

What were those perfect words I thought I’d found at three in the morning? The ones that were just right—not angry, not desperate, not needy? I can’t recollect. 

 

I feel woefully unprepared, and I’m dreadful at being unprepared. I’ve no experience with it.

 

Waiting for the kettle to be done seems like a good idea, so I begin to make a tray. Yes, this is good. Breathe in, breathe out; this helps. It gives me something to do and buys me some time while I take a few much needed breaths. 

 

Given away by the complaining kettle, though, I finally have no choice but to make my way back out to where Ron sits waiting on my settee, looking for all the world as vulnerable as I feel. Which is reassuring, I suppose. It gives me the confidence to sit down by his side rather than choose the chair across from him. 

 

After I pour and serve, I sit back and look up at him expectantly. He’s the one who’s come to call, so he should begin. Is that right? Are there social rules for this sort of interaction?

 

“Er, where should we start?” he asks, blowing gently into his cup. “I have no idea where to even start.” 

 

I nod. “I know what you mean. Where to begin…” I shake my head at the enormity of what’s before us to sort out. If it _can_ be sorted. 

 

When Ron takes a sip of his tea, he looks up at me with his eyes widened in recognition. We’re drinking the Hediard that we stocked and consumed regularly while we were hiding out in France, waiting and planning. 

 

“You still drink this?” he asks. 

 

“Of course. I fell in love with it that autumn.”

 

“Me too,” he says softly.

 

_Breathe, Hermione. It’s just tea he’s speaking of..._ Get back to the topic at hand. 

 

“Ron,” I begin so quietly I wonder if I’m audible, “maybe we could just start from the beginning? I mean, how long have you…” I trail off, because any words I might offer sound presumptuous to my ears. 

 

“How long have I felt this way?” he finishes. 

 

“Yes.” My heart swells in response to the direction of the conversation. 

 

“Hermione, I can’t remember a time when I _didn’t_ feel this way. I mean, I suppose there was a time when I thought of you as just a friend, but pretty early on it seemed to get a bit more complicated than that—at least for me.”

 

“Oh, Ron,” I whisper. I can already feel the tears brimming and I will them to stop. I had really hoped I’d get further into this conversation without crying. “If only I’d known.”

 

“Please don’t judge. Don’t think me a coward. Way back then, I thought those were just the dreams of a boy. That they’d pass. I had no idea that time would only make it stronger.”

 

“Judge? I can hardly judge you for anything that happened during our school years. I was so confused back then myself. I never knew where we stood...”

 

He looks at me now, making real eye contact and nodding. “Hermione, I know.” It occurs to me in this moment that he is probably the only person who genuinely does know what I felt all those years ago. He was feeling it too. The confusion, the hurt, the fear. Yet another experience we shared together in our youth, although we were unaware of doing so at the time. 

 

He chances to touch my cheek, and I close my eyes at the sensation. Lean into it a bit. His hands are warm from the teacup, and large and wonderful and familiar. A lovely shiver runs through me to my core. It’s silly, really, how after all these years, just his touch can give me gooseflesh. 

 

Still, I need to ask him. I need him to explain why it’s taken us so long to get here. 

 

“Ron,” I begin, hoping that I don’t sound accusatory, “what about later? After the war, you had plenty of opportunity to tell me, to show me. Why did you hold back?”

 

“Ha!” Ron laughs, one burst of disbelief that completely catches me off guard. “Hold back? Calling it _holding back_ assumes way too much: that I thought I had a chance with you, or that I believed you were an option. Call it what you want—cowardice, stupidity. But what I did—or what I _didn’t_ do—it was hardly self-sacrificing. I would have given _anything_ to be selfish about you.”

 

My head is starting to spin as I attempt to reconcile what he’s saying now with what he said the other night. Shaking my head, I say, “But Ron, in Harry’s room…the other night… you said I should be with someone like Gus. That was how it was _supposed to happen_.”

 

“Not because I wanted it that way. Because I thought _you_ wanted it that way. Hermione, you’ve never settled for anything but what you set out to get. You seem to have your life all mapped out, and it sure as hell didn’t look like there was a place for me in it.”

 

How can he say that? _I’m_ the one who took the chance. He’s the one who turned me down.

 

“But Ron, I tried! Last year, I—”

 

“I know, Hermione. I _know_ ,” he moans, head in his hands. “I’ve only thought about that night seven thousand times since it happened. Wondered if I’d got it wrong. But you have to understand, I was scared to death. I had no idea what your intentions were. I thought for certain there’d be no way to hold onto you afterwards. That once you’d got me out of your system it would be over. In my mind that was so much worse than never having you at all…”

 

“Oh, God.” I sink back into the settee, feeling a bit faint, thinking back to the words he spoke that night, as I’ve done countless times since. I know them by heart.

_“…it would be really easy for us to fall into this … and then afterwards, well, it just wouldn’t be … enough. I don’t want us to feel awkward for the rest of our lives because of one night.”_

 

And then I say it out loud. “You thought I was proposing something casual.” 

 

“I had no way of knowing otherwise.” 

 

“Yes, I see that now.” I’m such an idiot. 

 

He was telling me it wouldn’t be enough _for him._ That he wanted more than one night. He was making me an offer, looking for a sign from me, and I gave him none. How difficult would it have been for me to tell him I loved him? Three more words after I’d already put myself out on a limb. 

 

Then I would have known. _He_ would have known. 

 

I place my hand on his arm, almost cautiously. Because explaining everything settles nothing, it seems.

 

“It wasn’t meant to be a one-off, Ron. I wanted everything with you. So desperately that I couldn’t even see it when it was right in front of me.” 

 

“You’d never said, although I thought, but I expect I always chalked it up to hopefulness on my part…”

 

He’s rambling now, losing his train of thought, and I’m transfixed at the way his brow furrows as he tries to regain his focus. I want to kiss the crease out of it, to soothe him. It’s what I should be doing. As a career, I’m thinking.

 

“Hermione, I need to tell you something else. It’s actually the reason I came here. Not that this isn’t brilliant, _finally_ talking about this…” He can’t hide the slight grin this brings to his beautiful mouth, and as always, it slays me. 

 

“What is it?”

 

“Well, in truth, I mostly wanted to apologise for what happened the other night. I’d hoped to catch you alone before you left, but you’d already gone.”

 

“Well, I don’t feel I’m owed an apology, but I admit I am still confused about what happened.” I avert my eyes now, suddenly uncomfortable. “I mean, honestly Ron, why now? Why all of a sudden?”

 

He sighs at this, and rakes his hands through his hair, apparently overwhelmed at the charge of explaining. “It must seem sudden to you, I know. It wasn’t what I intended to happen.”

 

Already I don’t like the sound of this. It too closely resembles a retraction. I swallow hard at the thought that there is still a possibility he might take it all back, and listen to him go on. 

 

“It’s just that Harry’s been pressing me lately, forcing the issue. He said I couldn’t keep it from you forever, and that you were sussing it out anyway—asking too many questions about the naiads, acting suspicious, basically being very, you know, _you_.”

 

This earns him a raised brow, but he has more to say and ignores my reaction. 

 

“Anyway, I felt terrible…you’re my best friend and keeping this from you, even if you didn’t feel the same way, well it was just starting to feel wrong. Hiding it from you was as good as lying, I reckoned.

 

“I’d already decided I would need to talk to you soon, but I sure as hell wasn’t planning to do it at Harry and Ginny’s wedding. It just sort of snuck up on me. I came into the kitchen and Wendy asked me offhandedly, _‘When did we start dating Ron, was it May or June?’_

 

“She said you’d asked and she couldn’t remember exactly. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. I knew you’d riddled it out. I came after you to apologise for the _way_ you’d found out. No more. I didn’t intend for things to happen the way they did.”

 

“I know that, Ron.”

 

“One moment of weakness and I ruined things between you and Gus.” 

 

_What?_

 

“ _No_ , Ron. In one moment of honesty, you saved me from continuing to be deceitful.”

 

He’s not convinced; he looks at his lap, not at me. 

 

“I’m not saying I feel no guilt,” I continue, “I’ve felt sick to my stomach for three days about Gus, and about Wendy. But even if you walk out that door right now, I won’t regret letting Gus go. I’m learning that just wanting to love someone doesn’t make it true.”

 

At this, he finally looks me in the eyes fully again. “That’s what I told her as well,” he says.

 

_Oh, Wendy._ Even though part of me is relieved, my heart still aches for her. 

 

“I’m sorry about Wendy,” I tell him honestly. “And I’m sorry for what I’ve done to Gus. But Ron, even if I were to try, I could never give him what he needs from me.”

 

He nods. “Still, it was wrong. I had no right, and I put you in a terrible position, and it was just … out of order.”

 

“I didn’t stop you,” I remind him. I can’t allow him to bear the entire blame for what transpired. 

 

“I let the circumstances cloud my judgment. I’d like to say I wasn’t affected by seeing you with another bloke, but it near _killed_ me all these months, and then finding you alone, and knowing what you knew was such a bloody relief, and you looked so fucking beautiful… I just couldn’t help it. Fine friend I am.”

 

Despite my efforts to conceal it, I can feel the smile emerging at the corners of my lips. 

 

“What?” he asks, eyeing me.

 

“I think maybe your sister hoped that dressing me up for a change might put a fire under you.” 

 

He laughs at this, which feels nice. “I can’t blame it on that, I’m afraid,” shaking his head. “Hermione, you’re not exactly looking your best at the moment and my heart is about to _explode_ with how much I love you.” 

 

I think my heart just stopped beating. 

 

Ron’s eyes meet mine in surprise, and I watch as they grow wide at hearing his own words tumble out, realising what he said; it was obviously unplanned. 

 

But I’m going to take it anyway.   
  


In a haze of hopefulness and risk, I lean toward him. Close enough. And feel my face being lifted and Ron’s warm lips pressing down on mine as if waiting one more second would cause him physical pain. 

 

He’s that earnest, and it’s that powerful. I shiver at the intensity, but then right away feel my body relax as I become lost in the warmth of his mouth, the smooth slide of our tongues, and the eagerness with which he pulls me to him. 

 

Without waiting for further encouragement, I quickly bring my hands up around his neck, and thread them into his hair, trying to stay the urge to cling to him, to pull him even closer. 

 

A noise escapes my throat that is part moan and part sob, which makes Ron pull back an inch or so to look at me, touch my cheek, kiss from my chin a stray tear. Choked up as well, he sniffs rather loudly, which causes us both to chuckle. 

 

The whole messy scene is inelegant and unceremonious, and spilling over with raw honesty. So very … _us_. 

 

As if he’s reading my mind, he says, “That wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to tell you that. Not a very classic moment, yeah?”

 

I run my fingers through his hair, and down the length of his neck, relishing the freedom to do these things and not just imagine them.

 

“Believe it or not, _very_ memorable. Coming from you, almost everything is.” 

 

He has the nerve to still look stunned at this bit of news.

 

“Ron, do you have any idea how I feel about you?”

 

“No, actually! I mean, _yes_ … if the way you kissed me is any indication, and if it’s not, you’re supremely cruel, by the way, but well … I _hope_ I do. But you still haven’t said as much.”

 

Oh, my. He’s right. I _still_ haven’t said it. 

 

I suppose the depth of my feeling was so great for so long that I imagined it was as obvious as if I were wearing a badge. But I never gave him any lead, nothing definite to go forward with. I never put it out there in the open.

 

That must be remedied straightaway. 

 

Trembling, I climb into his lap and take his face in my hands. It’s intimate, and new, but yet feels as natural as if we’ve done this a million times before. And on some levels, we certainly have.

 

“Ron, I have been in love with you since before I knew what it meant. My daydreams have worn your face for as long as I can remember. And I have ached for you, in nearly every way, for so long. I _do_ love you. More than I can possibly tell you.”

 

He turns to kiss my palm and whispers, “I’m so sorry we missed the chance to say these things a long time ago. How do we go back?”  
  


I respond, “Can’t we just start over?” _Please say we can start over._

 

“I hope we can.” He still sounds unsure, but nonetheless he lifts his chin up to tentatively kiss my jaw, just there, in the hollow. 

 

“You see,” I say in mock condescension. “We’re doing it now. We’ve already started over.”

 

I suspect by the way one side of his mouth turns up that he’s starting to be convinced, which he confirms with a little nod. “Okay, let’s start over.”

 

If my smile is as big as it feels, I probably look a bit goofy right now. 

 

“Still, I’d like to do it right this time,” he says. I have no idea what he means by this, but he looks so earnest. 

 

“Do it right?”

 

“Take you on a proper date, work out what the hell it is we’re doing … but also spend some time catching up our friendship. I’ve neglected it, and you—you’ve _let_ me neglect it. We have some lost time to make up. That is, if you’ll let me.”

 

“Ron, I’ll let you do anything you want.” It comes out a little breathy, and the innuendo is not intentional, but it’s not exactly untrue, so I don’t edit myself after I’ve said it. Our proximity is having quite an effect on me. 

 

So much so that I can’t resist leaning back down to nuzzle his ear, just _there_ , where the tip of it is lost in his hair. He leans his head into my neck and makes a little pained noise there. “Hermione, you’re not making this any easier. I’m trying very hard not to rush this.”

 

“I know. And you’re right. I’m duly chastised.” He rolls his eyes at this, of course. “So, what happens next?” I ask him, sliding down off his lap and sitting properly in my seat.

 

He seems to consider this more than a rhetorical question, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he devises a plan. “Well, for starters, you could get dressed.” 

 

“Shut it, Ronald.”

 

“No, I’m serious. Why aren’t you at work today?”

 

“Took a few days off.” The reasons why don’t need illumination.

 

But that’s not what he’s leading up to. “Perfect. Pack some things, a couple of days’ clothing. I’ve an idea.” 

 

Typically Ron, he’s in motion again, standing up and putting on his cloak. “What’s the name of that café in Wandsworth?”

 

“The Wizard café? You mean the Prickly Burdock on St. John’s Hill.”

 

“Yes, that’s it. Can you meet me there in about an hour? I need to do some things.”

 

“Wait, Ron. Where are we going?” 

 

“Please, Hermione, trust me,” he says, smiling and full of a renewed energy that is contagious. Kissing my temple—in the same spot he always does, but in not at all the same way—he says, “Now pack a bag.” 

 

And then, just before he Disapparates, “We’re going to start over.”

 

 

~

 

_Please review. Thanks!_


	10. Chapter 10

  
Author's notes: _A/N - As always, thanks to Elisha, Stacy for amazing beta work, and to Maurice and Kate for the Britpicking._  


* * *

~ Chapter 10 ~ 

 

I'm early. I'm _always_ early. The whole ‘fashionably late’ thing is no match for my neurotic nature. It’s the instinct that compels me to think I’m running late, and yet I’m forever the first to arrive at the party, and assigned some last-minute task by the frazzled hostess mostly to keep me out of her way. 

And that’s just in normal everyday life. So, it’s not all that surprising that after ten years of pining for this man and finally laying everything bare with him only to have him tell me ‘meet me in an hour’—I find myself with a few minutes to spare. 

Twenty, in fact. 

With a sigh, I take in my surroundings in the Prickly Burdock Café. The restaurant is one of the many Wizarding businesses that cropped up after the war in traditionally Muggle areas. Wizards have got more confident, more comfortable, about spreading themselves out across the city. I think this is both potential progress and cause for concern, but the topic is not exactly foremost in my mind at the moment. 

Muggles don’t know, of course, that there is a hidden pub through the box room that caters to witches and wizards. We used to spend a fair amount of time back there when we were first back in England, still keeping to ourselves and uncomfortable about mixing with everyone in the usual Diagon hangouts. A small establishment, but suitably cosy, and more importantly—at least if you ask the boys— offers a wide selection of draught beers. 

At the moment, though, I am at a small table in the front of the restaurant, waiting. It’s a challenge not to watch the clock. Twenty more minutes on top of the million I’ve already waited before I embark on what might be the most important chapter of my life. 

I spend the first five of them pretending to read my book, but in truth compulsively watching the pavement outside the window for his boots. 

Finally, I decide to stop torturing myself and take a walk to calm my nerves. Ron must have asked for an hour for a reason, and it’s unlikely he’ll be here earlier. And if I sit here for another fifteen minutes I’ll go mad; I’ve read the same page three times. I stuff my book back in my bag and ask the manager if he’d mind keeping it behind the counter for me for a few minutes. 

I pull my scarf further up around my ears as I step outside. It’s chilly, but not uncomfortably so, and the cool air seems just what I needed to clear my head. With a deep cleansing breath that I can feel in my lungs, I start down Northcoate Road and do a bit of window shopping. 

There is a little boutique with a display of mannequins wearing swimsuits and lying on towels. Presumably a bid at those planning winter holidays, since there will be no sunbathing in London any time soon. 

Still, it’s cleverly arranged and full of details like beach balls and umbrella-adorned drinks. For the shop’s sake, I hope it’s the result of a creative staff member, and not simply one with too much time on her hands. 

As I’m paused on the pavement looking in, a couple stops a few feet behind me for no other apparent purpose than to whisper giggly things to each other and steal a kiss or two, all of which I watch reflected in the window. It’s sweet, as if they can’t even make it to their destination without stopping for this. 

Their affection is contagious, and I can’t help enjoy the scene. I hope they don’t see me observing them, placing myself speculatively in their shoes. My body reacts with a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature at the anticipation of finally being alone with Ron, and possibly quite soon. About learning the person I know so well in a whole new way. 

But unsure of what Ron has planned for us, I don't know whether to compare myself to them or not. It’s easier to imagine a sequence of events that unfolds in a predictable order. But right now I feel caught between an ending and a beginning. And I’m not sure how that story goes. 

After a stroll down the street and back, I’m sufficiently cold to feel compelled to return to the café, even though I’ve a few minutes to spare. After taking off my cloak, I pick up a menu to peruse. 

I wonder if we’ll order something. It’s late for breakfast but early for lunch. Instead, I turn over the menu to admire the artwork on the back. There are really lovely botanical sketches of the burdock thistle, its bristly burrs and wooly leafstalks. I remember pulling them from my socks as a child during summers at my gran’s—the same memory that sprang to mind as I watched Professor Sprout demonstrate their magical abilities. Like so many other small things, this plant was something I had to relearn when I entered the Wizarding world. 

So consumed am I by this train of thought that I forget to be nervous when Ron finally walks in. That’s not to say that I don’t thrill at the sight of him, pink cheeked from the cold and rather windswept. My heart dances. 

“Hi,” he says, bending down to kiss my temple. His lips are cool from the outdoors. “What’re you reading?” 

I hold up the illustration, at which he tilts his head a bit in question. “Lovely, isn’t it?” I ask. “Did you know that the roots of burdock are eaten underground by the larva of the Ghost Moth?” 

He laughs then, and catches me off guard by leaning forward and kissing me full on the mouth. In plain view of the manager and the one other customer. Although I can’t say this aspect bothers me very much in the circumstances. 

Because really, _he’s_ all I can feel, the relief of him so close again, and the expectation of even more. It drives other notions from my head, really. 

In fact, I’m just reaching up a hand to touch his cheek, to lose myself, when he pulls back a bit and, still smiling, says, “Hermione, I don’t really want to talk about moths just now…Are you ready to get going?” 

That answers the question of whether we’ll be ordering, for me and the manager, who grumbles as he passes my bag to Ron over the counter while I put my cloak back on. 

Ron leads me outside and offers his arm to me in a very gentlemanly manner that I swear makes me blush. We’ve walked this way a thousand times, but it’s all different now, and it just calls my attention to how hard he’s trying to do everything ‘right.’ 

Little does he know that I can’t imagine how anything he might do right now could be wrong. 

“So,” he starts, while we walk. 

“So?” 

“So, I hope it’s okay with you that I made some plans for the next few days. I thought maybe if we got away from here, just the two of us, we could catch our breath. Work it all out.” He stops, and turns to look at me. “Is that all right?” 

“Perfect, I’d say.” Promising and frightening and wonderful and nerve-wracking. But perfect. 

He nods, and continues to walk. “Well, where we’re going…it’s too far to Apparate, and it was too short notice to get a Portkey, even for celebrities such as ourselves, can you imagine?” He chuckles at this, and I love his ability to laugh at himself. It's not the same as the self-deprecating way he did when we were kids, the result of a lack of confidence. It's more genuine amusement at the unlikely story that is our past. 

While I’m reflecting on this he comes to a stop at Clapham Junction train station, and says, “Here we are.” 

“We’re travelling by train?” 

“What, you were expecting a magic carpet?” he counters, smiling at me as he leads me inside. 

I’ve never seen Ron like this before. I’ve observed him with plenty of dates, and he’s always perfectly polite, but he’s different somehow. He’s thought of everything. He purchased our tickets earlier, and within minutes we’ve boarded a train and taken our seats, where he has evidently already stored his luggage. 

Although he’s still not divulged our destination, I have a vague knowledge of the routes from this station and I’ve been unable to keep my mind from trying to riddle it out. 

Looking around me, I quietly cast a _muffliato_. “Ron?” 

“Don’t ask me just yet,” he pleads. “They’ll be making the announcement soon enough and I want to enjoy having you in suspense as long as possible.” 

As if on cue, the conductor announces our departure, along with our estimated arrival time at Poole Station. 

“I _knew_ it!” I almost shout, throwing myself at him and wrapping my arms around his neck. “We’re going to Jersey, aren’t we!?” 

We took this same route with Harry, traveling by Muggle means so we could be more anonymous. It’s nearly five years ago now, although it seems like yesterday. 

“I knew you’d guess straight away,” he says into my hair. “It seemed like the perfect place to start over, you know? It’s the first place I ever came close to telling you how I felt.” 

“How you felt?” I ask, in mock confusion. He smirks at me. 

“That I loved you. That I _love_ you.” 

“While we were in Jersey?” So long ago. 

“Yeah. Two months of waiting, planning, hiding, going _mad_. We could have been together way back then.” 

“Why didn’t you? Tell me, I mean.” 

He shrugs, not apologetic anymore, just reflective. “I was afraid. More than that, it scared the shite out of me. Still does.” 

“Me, too.” It feels good to speak it now, let it go. Despite my more immediate obsession with kissing the most prominent freckle on his face, just left of center on his right cheek. 

“No more waiting?” I ask him. 

“No more waiting,” he assures me. 

And then I indulge myself in kissing the aforementioned freckle, which he interprets as an invitation to initiate a deeper, more intimate kiss. It holds so much promise of what’s to come that it leaves me dizzy. 

~o~ 

Our day is long, with the lengthy train ride, a quick lunch in Poole, and then the ferry across. Ron grumbles more than once about the tediousness of Muggle travel. But as he promised this morning, it does provide us with a great deal of unblemished, uninterrupted time to just _be_. 

To talk about all the things we’ve not shared these last months. My work and his work for starters, but also things we’ve done and seen without each other, which we agree seems odd— until the last year we’ve been lucky enough to have shared most of our experiences. 

The spell I cast earlier offers limited privacy. There’s no question of sharing much more than a meaningful glance, a squeeze of the hand, or a brief kiss here and there. But the closeness, the familiarity with which he touches me reveals an almost electrical charge in the air, a sign of something coming our way that’s almost tangible. 

I catch him watching me in the window reflection and I turn suddenly, curious. 

“Me too,” he says simply. 

More than anything, I’ve missed _that_ ; the rhythm we always had with one another, even when we rowed, and the way he seems to know what I’ll say before I’ve even thought to say it. 

Finally, after disembarking from the ferry, we make our way to a quiet spot down the street and Disapparate. Our destination, the Aislinn Guest House, looks much the same as it did when we were here last. A mile or so back from the busier seafront area with its shops and larger hotels, the inn is a small stone building hidden in old-growth trees. If I remember correctly, it contains only about half a dozen or so guest rooms. 

We don’t have an opportunity to knock before the door swings open as if she was watching for us, awaiting our arrival. 

“Oh, look at you two!” says Moira Calnan, the proprietress. “You’re all grown up now.” 

“Get yourselves in here now, it’s desperate freezing,” she shoos us into the foyer and gives us proper, bone-crushing hugs. Moira reminds me very much of Molly in many ways, except that she is older, and tends to slip into an Irish brogue here and there. She only moved here about twenty years ago or so, after her husband passed on during the first war. 

She helped hide us when we needed to be unaccounted for. 

“How are you, Moira?” I ask, relieved at how well she looks after all this time. 

“Arra, an ache or two won’t slow me down, there’s too much to do. Now, listen, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up later but it’s almost supper. You go drop yer things upstairs and freshen up. You must be exhausted, coming all this way by Muggle transport. Grueling, to be sure…” 

“Yes, it is,” Ron agrees, looking pointedly at me as if to say _told you so_ before following her up the narrow staircase. 

With a stern reminder that supper is served in fifteen minutes and an _I won’t have you missing a meal_ , Moira leaves, handing us the keys to our rooms on her way. 

Yes, _rooms_. Plural. 

Ron has apparently reserved the same adjoining rooms that were our temporary home so long ago—the boys in one and I in the other. They look much the same, except for some new bed linen. I plop my bag down on a bed and make my way into the adjoining room, wondering briefly at Ron’s idea of sleeping arrangements. 

I look at him, now behind me in this second room, and obviously he’s wondering the same thing, because his bag is still over his shoulder. 

He shrugs at me, almost embarrassed. “I didn't want to assume anything.” 

He’s been so confident, so _in charge_ , all day. And now that we’re here, finally alone, I suspect maybe the reality of the situation is hitting him. 

I take his bag and place it in the other room, right next to mine, with a little flourish to emphasise my point. And then I return to him and loop my arms around his neck. 

“Please, Ron. For once, _assume_.” 

I _love_ that smile. The _I-can’t-believe-my-luck_ one that just reminds me so much of him. It makes me weak. 

He dips his head a bit, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he surprises me by just brushing his rough cheek against mine and pulling me into him. It’s lovely. And warm, and safe, and exciting all at once. 

It’s exhausting, but in a good way somehow. Like the way you feel at the end of a wonderful day, or a thrilling adventure. Sated, but happy. And maybe still reeling just a bit. 

I relish the feel of his long frame, pulling myself into him more than is probably necessary. When I slide my hands, still cool from the outside, up under the hem of his jumper, he gasps a little at the contact and pulls away to glare at me playfully. 

At this point, not kissing him is no longer a viable option, and I reach for him. He doesn’t hesitate at all, just takes my face in his hands and parts his lips and kisses me thoroughly. It’s slow and explorative, and for this one Ron is definitely in control. When his tongue first slips into my mouth, I think my knees might give. In fact, I suppose I must have swayed a bit, because he gently guides me to sit with him on the foot of the bed. To better anchor us. 

Our lips come together again and again, trying out different variations and approaches. It’s sort of clumsy and funny, and frustrating in the very best way it can be, in that it whets our appetite for more, challenges us to perfect it. And my favorite thing about it is that every time I steal a glance at him, I’m met with an easy smile. 

No more confusion or indecision. Only longing and plain joy that I assume must mirror my expression, since it matches what I feel so well. 

I find a little spot behind his ear that generates a sigh from him each and every time I go near it with lips or tongue—with such predictability that it’s almost an autonomic response. With a bit of a giggle and no small amount of self-satisfaction, I file that information away for later and continue to explore. His neck, the hollow of his throat, the underside of his chin. 

Ron’s large hands are holding me tightly, just grazing the sides of my breasts now and again with his thumbs in a way that drives me mad with impatience. When I finally move my hands to unbutton his shirt, he moves away. 

Scrambles, more like, back a few inches from me. It would cause me worry if he weren’t laughing and breathless. 

“You okay?” I ask, smiling myself. 

He nods and says, “Just a bit more time is all I ask.” He pushes my wild hair back over my shoulders and looks at me intently. “We're standing on the edge of something amazing, and I want to enjoy the view a little bit before we take that leap, you know?” 

_Yes_ , I know. “I’m in no rush, Ron. I just can’t get enough of you is all.” 

“I know. Me too,” he says, taking my hand. “Let’s go to dinner and we’ll talk more about this later? 

A minute later, we’re at the bottom of the steps and entering the dining room, where a handful of guests are seated at one long table. Family-style meals at the Aislinn, always. 

Moira comes bustling in carrying a platter of something delicious smelling and gesturing impatiently for us to sit. 

“That’s new, so it is,” she says, looking pointedly at our entwined hands. “I want more on that. But first you’ll eat.” 

~o~ 

Alone in the room, I muse on how it’s familiar and then not. I'm lying on the same bed I slept in for two months straight as a girl of eighteen, worried and hopeful and determined about so many things. Isn’t it amazing how context can give entirely different meaning to the same setting and details? 

When I hear Ron open the door, I half expect Harry to be with him. But not this time. He smiles at the sight of me, and it makes me all nervous and tingly. 

“You brought a book?” he asks, brows raised. 

“Well, you didn't say where we were going! I had no idea what I'd need...” I trail off, watching him stretch his arms up with a grimace. "Did she work you too hard?" I tease. 

Moira kept Ron after dinner to help clear, but I'm sure she was after our 'news,' and knew he'd be the easier nut to crack. So to speak. 

"She was fine. Says it was painfully obvious to her even last time we were here." 

I nod. Looking back on it, I'm sure it was. To everyone but us. 

Ron pulls off his jumper, and strides over to me purposefully, which catches me off guard and makes my breath hitch. But he surprises me by taking the book from my hands, and walking into the other room to drop it on the table, before coming back and joining me on the bed. "That'll be our study, yeah?" 

It would all be quite the impressive display of authority, except that I noticed he took the time to mark my page. He’s really quite sweet, even when he’s trying to be assertive. 

When he joins me on the bed, my arms go around him as if it’s where they belong. Which it is. It feels so right, the way he holds me against him as we’re lying here. 

“I’m sorry it took us a million years to get here. But I love you,” he says determinedly, as he leans down to kiss me. The flush on his cheeks is absolutely adorable, and I’m dying to see how far down it extends. 

I reach up and run my fingers through his hair as I tilt my head to press my lips more firmly against his. The way he sighs my name against my mouth makes my insides tighten and warm up. I wonder for a moment how reasonable it would be to quit our jobs and stay in this room forever. But I forget all about the real world when his tongue traces my mouth. I part my lips and move my own tongue against his lightly, eliciting a wonderful little moan from him. 

The moan might have been my name again, but by now I'm too lost in him to pay attention. Tongues meet and practically duel in a heated exchange that sends thrills of pleasure racing through me. Melting against him, I put everything there is to say into the kiss. 

Our hands are roaming now, and I tremble as he touches me; his hands leave a path of heat everywhere he caresses. This is what I've yearned for in the most private corners of my heart and mind for years. And yet it’s better than anything I've ever imagined.   
  
“Want you so much,” I murmur, nipping at his lower lip. 

He moans then, letting me know I’m not the only one who’s frustrated. 

We made an agreement earlier, on the train, to take our time. To take things slowly. 

I said (oh so wisely, it seemed at that moment) that it would be foolish to rush one another. After all, wasn’t that was love was? To be patient, to want what was best for the other person, for each other? 

It would be senseless to have come so far and then abandon all our good intentions and cast aside our proper fresh start in a heated rush. 

That’s what we said. 

Looking at him, though, the way that soft ginger lock falls across his forehead because he’s dipped his head and lowered his eyes—almost shyly— I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life as much as I want to cleave to him right now, in every way. And never let go. 

“Take off your shoes,” I finally manage to say. It's an odd choice, but it’s what springs to mind nonetheless. He toes them off and rolls toward me. 

Into me. 

“It’s so soon,” he whispers. “I don’t want to just bodge this Hermione. It means everything. _You_. Mean everything.” 

“Ron,” I begin, wondering how on earth I ended up in the position to be making a case. “I know there’s a whole world of loose ends waiting for us back home, but right now it’s just us. You said you wanted us to get away from everything, to see how we are together.” 

He looks up at me and says, “This _is_ how we are together. How we’ve _always_ been together. Sort of cautious…” 

“…and yet reckless…” 

“Yeah,” he laughs. “And confused.” He kisses my jaw. 

“But somehow certain, too?” I counter, as if I'm posing a theory. 

“Yes,” he concurs. " _Very_ certain.” 

I nibble that spot near his ear, the one I found earlier, and slide my hand down to his flies. From the way he groans, I don’t think I’ll have any more persuading to do. 

There are so many more things we could say, but no words are coming to mind. He begins to slowly unbutton my nightdress, and I notice a small scrape on the back of his hand. Work-related, possibly. But for some reason I will myself to remember that detail, and every other detail I possibly can. 

I want to remember every word he says, every sound I make. And whether my hair is strewn about the pillow or spilling over my shoulders. Whether I’m holding onto his strong shoulders or threading my hands through his hair. 

And when he peels away the thin fabric to reveal my bare breasts, and then plants a small kiss on my lips before dipping his head to take my nipple between his lips, and my entire world explodes with the truth of it all—I’m even positive that I’ll remember that is was my right breast and not my left. 

That’s how seared into my memory it all is. 

There isn’t any more conversation. Instead, there is the sound of caresses and kisses in chorus with the winter wind assailing the rattling old windows of the inn, all of which amounts to a conversation without words. We continue to lose articles of clothing in the process and eventually find our way into the warmth of the bed. 

His mouth is welcoming, his hands are large, his fingers are long, and his touch takes my breath away. His lips are soft and wet against my jaw and neck and shoulder as he kisses and licks and nips at my skin. His skin is warm beneath my hands, rough in some places and smooth in others, I discover as I trail my fingertips along every part of him I can reach. And his firm muscles flex as he lifts me a bit and pushes me into the scratchy wool blanket and soft flannel sheets. 

I have always known him to have a bit of an oral inclination: chewing on his quill, sucking on a sweet, or absently nibbling on a fingernail. He’s no different in this pursuit, gently licking my neck and collarbone before returning his attentions to the undersides of my breasts, a nipple. 

I can feel the soft hair of his hard thigh against me, and instinctively I rock against him. He laughs quietly, his breath warm against my wet breast, and he slides a hand behind me to grip my arse and pull me closer. I can feel the hard length of him as he briefly rubs against my leg. Then I watch in wonder as his head moves lower and I cry out in a soft, strangled gasp when his tongue laps at me. 

“ _Ron_ ,” I hear myself moan. 

You’d think it would be uneasy, this sudden intimacy, but it’s not. It’s the most natural thing in the world. Shreds of any remaining doubt about whether we’d work well together— _fit_ well together— just fall away. The connection is so organic and raw and intrinsically _right_. I’m helpless to do anything but advance it. 

I move my fingers into his beautiful hair and gently lift my hips, pressing against his tongue, lips, hand, until I’m making noises that I didn’t think I knew how to make. No one’s ever done this to me before. 

Ron is intense now, focused, the way I saw him at his work, and I marvel again at who he’s become. It would be easy to chalk it up to boyish enthusiasm, but there is nothing juvenile about the way Ron is touching me. It is careful and gentle and rough all at the same time, and completely beyond words. Finally, I know the feeling of being loved and desired in such an all-consuming way as I have loved and desired him. 

The truth is I know him all too well. He’s trying his level best to make everything just so, to take his time. But as much as I love the man he’s become, I also adore the breath of impatience I still see in him, buried just beneath the surface. 

It’s a trait we share, after all, and I feel it too. Scrabbling suddenly away from him while there’s still time, I grab his shoulders and urge him up to me, kissing him deeply, reaching down to guide him toward me. 

He looks deep into my eyes, brow furrowed, and slides slowly inside me. 

For a moment, I am surprised at the suddenness of the motion. Through his slow ministrations and in the connection of our gaze, _that’s_ where permission is sought and granted. Not in our words. 

And really, isn’t that what trust is? That leap of faith where you’re so sure that someone understands your intent and your heart that you don’t waste your words to even speak them aloud. 

“ _Oh, god_ ,” he says, strained. He thrusts into me, stretching me, and we begin to move together as if we’ve been doing this for years instead of just minutes. 

His words are in my ear and his mouth is on mine and his hands are between us— on my breasts, my nipples, between my legs. I can feel the heat building in me as if I might burst into flames at any moment. 

And then finally, I do, falling apart in his arms. He keeps kissing me as I do, and holds me tighter, keeps me safe so I can let go. 

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, stroking my forehead, kissing my temple. I’m still reeling and trembling when I feel him moving more purposefully, prolonging the waves of pleasure in my body, until he finally tenses and finishes with a low grunt against my lips. He keeps moving until he’s finally spent. Then he lies on top of me, panting against my neck as we try to come back to the planet. Ron is a large man, but the delicious weight of him on me in that moment feels wonderful and safe. 

We stay there like that, tangled in each other, for the longest time before we eventually snuggle down into the sheets. 

Neither if us speaks until at some point I feel a giggle bubble up and find its way out of me. 

He opens one eye to look over at me, with that uneven, sexy smile on his lips. “What are you on about?” 

“I was just thinking…I've always considered myself a bit of a perfectionist...” 

“No, _you_?” 

“Shut it, Ron.” 

“Right, you were saying?” 

“Well, it's just...I've never got anything _this_ right before.” 

There it is again, that smile. It slays me. 

So wide and uninhibited. 

_Unchecked._ Like us. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Hermione. On so many counts.” 

“Why me?” I ask, before I think about whether I should. 

When I was young and longed for him, I used to think _Why not me?_ But these last few years, I think Ron could probably have anyone. 

“Hell, Hermione. For a million reasons...and for no reason…” He looks down at his hand where it’s tracing my collarbone. “No!” he says suddenly, startling me. “There’s really only _one_ reason when I think on it. You're _you_.” 

“Meaning?” I stop just short of teasing him. This time. 

“Meaning you’re the only one who fits.” 

Right then, forget the teasing. I _love_ this man. 

I wrap myself around him again, tangling my legs into his, burying my head against the soft hair of his chest. Just loving the warm sweaty feel of our bodies being in contact in so many places. 

I’ll admit to a moment of panic when I think objectively about what we’ve just done, the sudden leap of it all. There are a million paths that could follow such a drastic change in our relationship. 

“We’re lovers now,” I say, stating the obvious. I immediately regret the sound of that particular word from my mouth, as it makes it feel ordinary, as if we are characters from a paperback novel. 

But Ron pulls my eyes back to his. “We were before,” he says gently. “We always have been.” 

His face surprises me with its truthfulness, its sincerity. And I absorb what he says, as though I know I’ll always rely on those words for sustenance. 

“You’re lovely,” he says. 

“And tired,” I add, pressing my body to his. “May I sleep a little, like this?” 

He places his large arms around me, and chuckles a bit. “ _May_ you? Just try leaving.” 

I run my fingers down the length of his back and settle in to listen until his breathing becomes regular. I’m not sure who succumbs to sleep first. 

 

  
  


~o~  
  


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